•    mt  UNfVTHm     e 


a 

i 

•    SANTA  tA««ARA    « 


•    O*  CAUfOtMA    • 


«  40  uvvtn  iHi  •. 


2 


a 


5h 


•  /msoAMn  iMi  • 


o     " 


o   TMi  iiBiArr  o«   o 


'"-ft 


o  lANTA  tMBAtA   o  , 


•  yyrwTH  »ii*irv  « 


9 


3f\ 


1 


e    AUnOAMn  »ti   • 


I 

i 

3 


hi 


\ 


•  TH(  imtAiv  or  • 


•  viNsomo  «o  o. 


IHIUMVeBnY    0 

IB" 


B 


H 


•   SANTA  tAIIBAftA   • 


N 


9 


9 


ss 


•    0>  CAt»0«MA    O 


•    Wl  UNIVIISITY    0 


o  to  ivvnn  Mi  • 


»  SANTA  BAUAaA  0 


•    TMI 

5 


IIWI/tMirT    • 


iANtAkA««AaA   • 


o    Of  CAtirOffNIA    o 

t 


u 


£0 


^^ 


•  «o  Mvnn  Mt  • 


VINVt  • 
I 


/  \ 


h 


•  AunaAMnxi  • 


«   TH(  uniAKV  Of 

e 

eM7 

f 

1 

c 

> 

h 

3 

•    THI  UMVEUnt    • 

8 


o  or  CMVoaNu  • 


•    VIN«0«TV3  40    o^ 


"  SAKIA  ftAUARA   O 


•  «o  Aarvnn  im  •. 


•  Of  CAuro«MA   o 


U 


£D 


3  9^ 


•  lo  uvnn  »u  o 


o  tx  uMvtasirr  • 


y£ 


B 


•  i  NTA  tAHeARA   »  , 


a  IMC  uttAirr 


0^ 


— E^ 


Of  • 

I 


n 


•  viN«oi«no  40  • 


e    O*  CAir0«NU    • 


J^ 


3^ 


»    40  X«V4«I)  JHi    0. 


I 

3 


9 


SR 


•  KituViittn  )Mi  • 


•  TMC  IMAtT  <y   • 


1^ 

s: 

1^ 

n 

o    viN«0ii1O  to    ". 


a  t>«  tnitA«Y  or 


UFt 


05 


ES^ 


n 


•   «iNao«i>r3  lO 


O  V««t>V«  VXN««  • 


9 


3f\ 


e    Of  CAlVOHrOA    o 


•    «0  AtVltVl  IHt    O 


•  THI  laaArr  of  • 
._ I 

I 

t 

» 

► 

•  mtntnoto  • 


•    TMf  UNIvnSITT    o 


•    Of  CAIVOIMM    • 


\ 


m 


B 


•   tANTA  tAItAIA   « 


u 

^1 

3 

*  fO  iWMn  Ml  * 


BEDOUIN  LOVE 
ARTHUR    WEIGALL 


BEDOUIN    LOVE 


BY 

ARTHUR  \YEIGALL 

Author   of  "Aladeline   of   the   Desert"  "The  Dweller 
in  the  Desert,"  etc. 


NEW  xEr   YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


VK 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPAHT 


BEDOUIN    LOVE.   I 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  FACE 

I      CHOLERA 9 

II      THE    CONVALESCEXT 23 

III      MONIME 35 

rv      BEDOUIN    LOVE 46 

V      THE   SQUIRE   OF   EVERSFIELD 58 

VI       SETTLING  DOWN 73 

VII  THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL 87 

VIII  MARRL\GE IO3 

IX      IN   THE  WOODS II7 

X      THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER I33 

XI  THE  DEPARTURE I48 

XII  THE    ESCAPE 160 

XIII  FREEDOM 1 78 

XIV  THE   ISLAND  OF    FORGETFULNESS       .        .        .        .  1 95 

XV  WOMAN    REGNANT 206 

XVI  THE    RETURN 224 

XVII      THE    CATASTROPHE 24O 

XVIII       DESTINY 251 

XIX       LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 264 

XX      THE  ARM   OF  THE  LAW 276 

XXI      THE    LAST  KICK 289 

XXII      THE   SHADOW  OF   DEATH 304 


BEDOUIN  LOVE 


BEDOUIN   LOVE 


Chapter  I:     CHOLERA 

JAMES  Champernowne  Tundering-West,  or,  as 
for  the  time  being  he  preferred  to  be  called, 
Jim  Easton,  sat  himself  down  on  the  camp- 
bedstead  in  the  middle  of  the  one  habitable  room 
of  a  derelict  rest-house,  built  on  the  edge  of  the 
desert  some  distance  behind  the  houses  of  the  native 
town  of  K6m-es-Sultan.  All  day  long  he  had  been 
feeling  an  uneasiness  of  body;  and  now,  when  the 
incinerating  June  sun  was  sinking  towards  the  glar- 
ing mirror  of  the  Nile,  this  vague  disquiet  devel- 
oped into  a  very  tangible  malady. 

He  knew  precisely  what  was  the  matter  with 
him,  and  his  dark,  angry  eyes  rolled  around  the 
dirty  pink-washed  room,  as  would  those  of  a 
criminal  around  the  place  of  execution.  Yesterday 
he  had  arrived  in  from  the  desert,  tired  out  by  a 
four-days'  journey  on  camel-back  across  the  fur- 
nace of  rocks  and  sand  which  separated  the  gold- 
mines, where  he  had  been  working,  from  the  near- 
est bend  of  the  Nile.  There  had  been  an  outbreak 
of  cholera  at  the  camp;  and,  being  the  only  white 
man  then  remaining  at  the  works,  which  were  in 
process  of  being  shut  down  for  the  summer,  he  had 
been  obliged  to  stay  at  his  post  until,   as  he  sup- 

9 


lo  BEDOUIN    LOVE 

posed,  the  epidemic  had  been  stamped  out.  Then, 
with  a  handful  of  natives  he  had  set  out  for  the 
Nile  Valley;  but  on  the  journey  his  personal  servant 
had  contracted  the  dreaded  sickness,  and  the  man 
had  died  pitifully  in  his  arms,  in  the  stifling  shadow 
of  a  wayside  rock. 

The  little  town  of  K6m-es-Sultan  was  a  mere 
jumble  of  mud-brick  houses  surrounding  a  white- 
washed mosque;  and  so  great  was  the  summer  heat 
that  one  might  have  expected  the  whole  place  sud- 
denly to  burst  into  flames  and  utterly  to  be  con- 
sumed. No  Europeans  lived  there,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  nondescript  Greek,  who  kept  a  grocery 
store  and  lent  money  to  the  indigent  natives  at  out- 
rageous interest;  but  at  the  village  of  El  Aish,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Nile,  there  was  a  small  sugar- 
factory,  in  charge  of  an  amplitudinous  and  bearded 
Welshman  named  Morgan,  who,  presumably,  was 
now  at  his  post,  since,  but  a  few  minutes  ago,  the 
siren  announcing  the  end  of  the  day's  work  had 
sounded  across  the  water.  Although  six  hundred 
miles  above  Cairo,  K6m-es-Sultan  was  not  so  iso- 
lated as  its  primitive  appearance  suggested;  for  it 
was  no  more  than  five  miles  distant  from  a  rail- 
way-station, where,  once  a  day,  the  roasting  little 
narrow-gauge  train  halted  in  its  long  journey  down 
to  Luxor. 

Jim  cursed  his  suddenly  active  conscience  that  it 
had  not  permitted  him  to  take  this  train  as  it  passed 
in  the  morning,  for  already  then  he  had  realized 
the  probability  that  calamity  was  upon  him;  but  he 
had  been  constrained  to  remain  where  he  was,  alone 
in  the  ramshackle  and  parboiled  rest-house  outside 


CHOLERA  II 

the  town,  for  fear  of  spreading  the  sickness,  and 
he  had  determined  to  wait  until  an  answer  came 
from  the  Public  Health  official  at  Luxor,  to  whom 
he  had  sent  a  telegram  stating  that  his  party  was 
infected,  and  that  he  was  keeping  the  men  together 
until  instructions  were  received.  He  seldom  did  the 
correct  thing;  but  on  this  occasion,  when  lives  were 
at  stake,  he  had  felt  that  for  once  the  freedom  of 
the  individual  had  to  be  subordinated  to  the  inter- 
ests of  the  community,  repugnant  though  such  a 
thought  was  to  his  independent  nature. 

A  dismal  sort  of  place,  he  thought  to  himself,  in 
which  to  fight  for  one's  life!  There  were  two 
doors  in  the  room,  one  bolted  and  barred  since  the 
Lord  knows  when,  the  other  creaking  on  its  hinges 
as  the  scorching  wind  fluttered  up  against  it  through 
the  outer  hall.  A  window  near  the  floor,  with 
cracked,  cobwebbed  panes  of  glass,  stood  half  open, 
and  a  towel  hung  loosely  from  a  nail  in  the  outside 
shutter  to  another  in  the  inside  woodwork.  In  the 
morning  it  had  served  to  keep  out  the  early  sun;  but 
now  the  last  rays  struck  through  the  cracks  of  the 
opposite  doorway  in  dusty  shafts. 

He  had  told  his  Egyptian  overseer  that  he  was 
tired,  and  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed 
again  until  the  morning;  and  he  bade  him  keep 
the  men  in  the  camp  amongst  the  rocks  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  back  in  the  desert,  and  prevent  them 
from  entering  the  town.  But  in  thus  desiring  to  be 
alone  he  had  not  been  prompted  merely  by  his  regard 
for  the  safety  of  others:  he  had  followed  also  that 
primitive  instinct  which  his  wandering,  self-reliant 
manner  of  life  had  nurtured  in  him,  that  instinct 


12  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

which  leads  a  man  to  hide  himself  from,  rather  than 
to  seek,  his  fellows  when  illness  is  upon  him.  Like 
a  sick  animal  he  had  slunk  into  this  desolate  place 
of  shelter;  and  he  now  prepared  himself  for  the 
battle  with  a  sense  almost  of  relief  that  he  was  un- 
observed. 

He  went  across  to  the  door  and  bolted  it;  then 
to  the  window,  and  pulled  the  shutters  to:  but  the 
bolt  was  broken  and  the  woodwork,  eaten  by  white- 
ants,  was  falling  to  pieces.  He  took  from  his  medi- 
cine-box a  large  flask  of  brandy,  a  bottle  of  carbolic, 
a  little  phial  of  chlorodyne,  and  a  thermometer. 
There  was  a  tin  jug  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  full 
of  water;  and  into  this  he  emptied  the  carbolic, 
shaking  it  viciously  thereafter.  Then  he  saturated 
the  towel  with  the  liquid,  and  replaced  it  across  the 
window. 

As  the  first  spasms  attacked  him  and  left  him 
again,  he  gulped  down  a  stiff  dose  of  brandy, 
stripped  off  most  of  his  clothes,  and  rolled  them 
up  in  a  bundle  in  the  corner  of  the  room;  uncorked 
the  chlorodyne,  and  lay  down  on  his  mattress.  His 
heart  was  beating  fast,  and  for  a  while  he  was 
shaken  with  fear.  All  his  life  he  had  smiled  at 
death  as  at  a  friend,  and,  like  Marcus  Aurelius,  had 
called  it  but  "a  resting  from  the  vibrations  of  sen- 
sation and  the  swayings  of  desire,  a  stop  upon  the 
rambling  of  thought,  and  a  release  from  all  the 
drudgery  of  the  body."  Yet  now,  when  he  was  to 
do  battle  with  it,  he  was  afraid. 

He  endeavoured  to  laugh,  and  as  it  were  mentally 
to  snap  his  fingers;  and  presently,  perhaps  under  the 
influence  of  the  brandy,  he  got  up  from  the  bed  and 


CHOLERA  13 

fetched  from  the  outer  room  his  guitar,  which  had 
been  his  solace  on  many  a  trying  occasion.  Some 
years  ago,  in  South  Africa,  he  had  set  to  a  lilting 
tune  the  lines  of  Procter  in  praise  of  Death;  and 
now,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  a  wild  haggard 
figure  with  sallow  face  and  black  hair  tumbling  over 
his  forehead,  he  twanged  the  strings  and  sang  the 
crazy  words  with  a  sort  of  desperation. 

King  Death  was  a  rare  old  fellow ; 

He  sat  where  no  sun  could  shine, 
And  he  lifted  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  poured  out  his  coal-black  wine 

Hurrah,  for  the  coal-black  wine! 

There  came  to  him  many  a  maiden 

Whose  eyes  had  forgot  to  shine, 
And  widows  with  grief  o'erladen, 

For  draught  of  his  coal-black  wine. 

Hurrah,  for  the  coal-black  wine! 

The  heat  of  the  room  was  abominable,  and  he 
mopped  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief,  and 
groaned  aloud.  Then,  returning  to  his  song,  he 
skipped  a  verse  and  proceeded. 

All  came  to  the  rare  old  fellow, 

Who  laughed  till  his  eyes  dropped  brine, 

And  he  gave  them  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  pledged  them  in  Death's  black  wine. 
Hurrah,  for  the  coal-black  wine! 

The  sun  set  and  the  stars  came  out.  At  length, 
overcome  with  sickness,  he  thrust  the  guitar  aside, 
and  staggered  across  the  room;  and  presently,  when 
he  was  somewhat  recovered,  he  groped  for  a  candle, 
lit  it,  stuck  it  in  an  empty  bottle,  and  lay  down  again 
with  a  gasp  of  pain. 


14  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Now  the  battle  began  in  earnest,  and  he  made 
no  further  attempt  to  laugh.  Taut  and  racked,  he 
stared  up  at  the  dim,  cobvvebbed  ceiling,  and  swore 
that  no  man  should  come  near  him  so  long  as  there 
was  danger  of  infection.  He  was,  perhaps,  a  little 
pig-headed  on  this  point;  but  such  was  his  nature. 
"Live,  and  let  live"  had  ever  been  his  motto;  and 
now  he  was  putting  into  practice  the  second  half 
of  that  maxim. 

The  thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to 
write  a  will,  or  some  general  instructions,  in  case 
the  "rare  old  fellow"  were  triumphant;  but,  on  con- 
sideration, he  abandoned  the  idea  for  the  good  rea- 
son that  he  had  neither  property  worth  mentioning 
to  leave,  nor  relations  to  whom  he  would  care  to 
address  his  last  message.  Moreover,  in  his  momen- 
tary relief  from  pain,  he  felt  extraordinarily  disin- 
clined to  bother  himself. 

He  had  an  uncle — Stephen — who  was  in  posses- 
sion of  a  little  estate  at  Eversfield,  a  small  English 
village  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Oxford,  where  the 
Tundering-Wests  had  lived  for  many  generations; 
but  he  had  not  seen  much  of  this  correct  and  con- 
ventional personage  during  his  childhood,  and  noth- 
ing at  all  for  the  last  ten  years,  since  he  had  been 
a  grown  man  and  a  wanderer.  This  uncle  had  two 
sons,  his  cousins:  one  of  them,  Mark  by  name,  was, 
he  believed,  in  India;  the  other,  called  James  like 
himself,  lived  at  home.  They  were  were  his  sole 
relations,  he  being  an  only  child,  and  his  father  and 
mother  having  died  two  or  three  years  ago,  leaving 
him  a  few  hundred  pounds,  which  he  had  quickly 
lost. 


CHOLERA  15 

There  was  nobody  who  would  care  very  much 
if  he  pegged  out,  and  in  this  thought  there  was  a 
sort  of  gloomy  comfort.  Moreover,  he  was  known 
by  his  few  friends  in  Eg}'pt  and  elsewhere  as  Jim 
Easton;  for,  many  years  ago,  at  a  time  when  he 
was  reduced  to  utter  penury,  he  had  thought  it 
best  to  hide  his  identity,  lest  interfering  persons 
should  communicate  with  his  relations.  In  the  name 
of  Jim  Easton  he  had  wandered  from  place  to 
place,  and  in  that  name  he  had  obtained  this  job 
at  the  gold  mines;  and  if  now  he  were  to  die,  the 
fate  of  James  Tundering-West  would  remain  a  mat- 
ter of  speculation.  That  was  as  it  should  be:  ever 
since  he  left  England  he  had  been  a  bird  of  pas- 
sage, and  is  it  not  a  rarity  to  see  a  dead  bird?  No- 
body knows  where  they  all  die,  or  how:  with  few  ex- 
ceptions, they  seem,  as  it  were,  to  fade  away;  and 
thus  he,  too,  would  disappear. 

He  rolled  his  eyes  around  his  prison,  and  clapped 
his  hand  with  pathetic  drama  to  his  burning  fore- 
head. "Wretched  bird!"  he  muttered,  addressing 
himself.  "It  was  in  you  to  soar  to  the  heights,  to 
go  rushing  up  to  the  sun  and  the  planets,  with  strong, 
driving  wings.  But  the  winds  were  always  con- 
trary, or  the  attractions  of  the  lower  air  were  too 
alluring;  and  now  you  arc  sunk  to  the  earth,  and 
may  be  you  will  never  make  that  great  assault  upon 
the  stars  of  which  you  had  always  dreamed." 

He  dismissed  these  useless  ruminations.  He  was 
not  going  to  die:  life  and  the  lure  of  the  unattained 
were  still  before  him. 

Another  and  another  spasm  smote  him,  tore  him 
asunder,  and  left  him  shaking  upon  the  bed.     With 


i6  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

a  trembling  hand  he  mixed  the  brandy  and  chloro- 
dyne,  making  little  attempts  to  measure  the  dose. 
The  candle  spluttered  on  the  floor  near  by,  and 
strange  insects  buzzed  around  it,  singed  themselves, 
and  fell  kicking  on  their  backs. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  watched  them  as  he  lay 
on  his  side,  his  knees  drawn  up,  and  his  hands  grip- 
ping the  edge  of  the  bed.  Their  agonies,  no  doubt, 
were  as  great  as  his,  but,  being  small,  they  did  not 
matter.  He,  too,  as  Englishmen  go,  was  not  large; 
and  it  was  very  apparent  that  he  did  not  much  mat- 
ter. He  was  of  the  lean  and  medium-sized  variety 
of  the  race,  and  was  of  the  swarthy  type  which  is 
often  to  be  found  in  the  far  south-west  of  England, 
where  his  family  had  had  its  origin.  Some  people 
might  have  termed  him  picturesque ;  others  might 
have  said,  and  most  certainly  just  now  would  have 
said,  that  he  looked  a  bit  mad. 

At  length  he  slept  for  a  few  minutes;  but  his 
dreams  were  hideous,  and  full  of  faces,  which  came 
close  to  him,  growing  bigger  and  bigger,  until,  with 
strange  and  melancholy  grimaces,  they  receded  once 
more  into  infinite  distance.  Somebody  grey,  ponder- 
ous, and  very  fearful,  counted  endless  numbers,  now 
slowly  and  portentously,  now  with  such  increasing 
rapidity  that  his  brain  reeled. 

In  this  manner  the  seemingly  endless  night  passed 
on:  a  few  moments  of  sleep,  a  disjointed  procession 
of  horrible  fantasies,  convulsions  of  pain,  stagger- 
ings  across  the  room,  fallings  back  on  the  bed, 
brandy,  and  exhausted  sleep  again.  But  all  the  while 
he  knew  that  he  was  growing  weaker. 

Presently  the  candle  went  out,  and  the  darkness 


CHOLERA  17 

closed  over  his  agony.  The  thought  came  to  him 
that  soon  he  would  no  longer  have  the  power  to 
dose  himself,  and  with  it  came  that  human  desire 
for  aid  which  no  animal  instinct  of  segregation  can 
wholly  stifle  in  a  heart  weary  with  pain.  It  was  now 
long  past  midnight,  and  from  this  time  till  sunrise 
he  fought  a  terrible  double  battle,  on  the  one  hand 
with  Death,  on  the  other  with  Self.  It  would  not 
be  impossible,  he  knew,  to  crawl  from  the  room 
into  the  silent  desert  outside,  and  a  cry  for  help 
would  possibly  be  heard  by  his  men. 

But  what  would  happen?  They  would  go  into 
the  town,  doubtless  carrying  the  infection  with  them, 
and  would  engage  a  boat  in  which  they  would  row 
across  the  Nile  to  fetch  Morgan,  who  had  the  repu- 
tation of  being  somewhat  of  a  doctor.  But  Mor- 
gan had  a  wife  and  child  in  Wales,  who  were  de- 
pendent on  him:  only  last  autumn  that  hairy  giant 
had  told  him  all  about  them  as  they  sat  drinking 
warm  lager  in  the  dusty  garden  by  the  river,  one 
hot  night,  just  before  the  mining  party  had  set  out 
for  the  distant  works. 

Thus,  when  at  long  last  the  sun  rose  and  glared 
into  the  room,  above  and  below  the  fluttering  towel, 
he  was  still  alone. 

At  nine  o'clock,  as  the  day's  heat  and  the  on- 
slaught of  the  flies  began  again  to  be  intolerable,  he 
gave  up  hope.  Until  that  hour  he  had  fought  his 
fight  with  decency;  but  now  convulsion  on  convul- 
sion had  dragged  the  strength  out  of  him,  and  he 
was  no  longer  able  to  crawl  back  on  to  the  bedstead. 
The  last  drops  of  brandy  in  a  tumbler  by  his  side,  he 
lay  limply  on  the  floor;  and  where  he  lay,  there  the 


i8  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

spasms  racked  him,  and  there  he  fainted.  With  the 
hope  for  life  went  also  the  desire,  and  each  time  that 
he  came  to  himself  he  prayed  to  God  for  the  mercy 
of  unconsciousness.  The  dying  words  of  Anne 
Boleyn,  which  he  had  read  years  ago,  recurred  again 
and  again  to  his  mind:  "O  Death,  rocke  me  aslepe; 
bringe  me  on  quiet  rest."  He  kept  saying  them 
over  to  himself,  not  with  his  lips,  for  they  were 
parched,  but  somewhere  deep  down  in  the  nightmare 
of  his  wandering  brain. 

Presently  a  gust  of  blistering  wind  flicked  the 
towel  from  its  nail  in  the  window,  and  with  that 
the  creaking  shutter  slammed  back  on  its  hinges, 
and  the  sun  streamed  full  on  to  the  white  figure 
on  the  floor.  Jim  opened  his  eyes,  bloodshot  and 
wild,  and  stared  out  on  to  the  rocks  and  sandy  drifts. 
A  few  sparrows  were  hopping  about  languidly  in 
the  shade  of  a  ruinous  wall,  their  beaks  open  as 
though  they  were  panting  for  breath.  The  sky  was 
leaden,  for  the  glare  of  the  sun  seemed  to  have 
sucked  out  the  colour  from  all  things,  even  from  the 
yellow  sand,  which  now  had  the  neutral  hue  of 
Egyptian  dust. 

This,  then,  was  the  end! — and  he  could  shut  up 
his  life  as  a  book  that  has  been  read.  At  the  age 
of  nineteen  he  had  abandoned  the  humdrum  but 
respectable  City  career  towards  which  he  was  being 
headed  by  his  father,  and,  having  nigh  broken  the 
parental  heart,  had  gone  out  to  Korea  as  handy- 
man to  a  gold-mining  company.  He  had  dreamed 
of  riches;  his  mind  had  been  full  of  the  thought  of 
gold  and  its  power.  He  had  imagined  himself  buy- 
ing a  kingdom  for  his  own,  as  it  were. 


CHOLERA  19 

Two  years  later,  utterly  disillusioned,  he  had 
taken  ship  to  California,  and  had  earned  his  living 
in  many  capacities,  until  chance  had  carried  him  to 
the  Aroe  Islands  in  the  pearl  trade,  and  later  to  the 
diamond  mines  of  South  Africa.  Incidentally,  he 
had  become,  after  three  or  four  years,  something 
of  an  expert  in  estimating  the  value  of  diarnonds, 
and  had  made  a  few  hundred  pounds  by  barter;  but 
with  this  supi  in  the  bank  he  had  failed  to  resist  the 
vagrancy  of  his  nature  and  the  enticement  of  his 
dreams,  and  had  returned  to  Europe  to  wander 
through  Italy,  France,  and  Spain:  not  altogether  in 
idleness,  for  being  addicted  to  scribbling  his  thoughts 
in  rhyme,  and  twisting  and  turning  his  speculations 
into  the  various  shapes  of  recognized  verse,  he  had 
filled  many  notebooks  with  jottings  and  impressions 
which  he  believed  to  be  more  or  less  worthless. 

Then  he  had  inherited  his  father's  small  savings, 
and  had  been  induced  by  a  persuasive  friend  to  in- 
vest them  in  an  expedition  to  Ceylon  in  search  of  a 
mythical  field  of  moonstones.  Returning  in  absolute 
poverty,  owning  nothing  but  his  guitar  and  the 
threadbare  clothes  in  which  he  stood,  he  had  landed 
at  Port  Said,  and  so  had  taken  reluctant  service  in 
this  somewhat  precarious  gold-mining  company  at  a 
salary  which  had  now  placed  a  small  sum  to  his 
credit  on  the  company's  books. 

A  roaming,  dreaming,  sun-baked.  Bedouin  life! 
— and  this  ending  of  it  in  a  stifling,  tumbledown 
rest-house  seemed  to  be  the  most  natural  wind-up 
of  the  whole  business.  Often  he  had  enjoyed  him- 
self; he  had  played  with  romance;  he  had  had  his 
great  moments;  but  at  times  he  had  suffered  under  a 


20  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

sense  of  utter  loneliness,  and  these  last  months  at 
the  mines  in  the  desert  had  been  a  miserable  exile, 
only  relieved  by  those  silent  hours  in  his  tent  at 
night,  when  he  had  endeavoured  to  put  into  written 
words  the  tremendous  thoughts  of  his  teeming  brain. 
And  now  death  and  oblivion  appeared  to  him  as 
something  very  eagerly  to  be  desired — a  great  sleep, 
where  the  horrible  sun  and  the  flies  could  not  reach 
him,  and  an  eternal  relief  from  all  this  agony,  all 
this  messiness. 

He  fumbled  for  the  last  of  the  brandy,  knocked 
the  glass  over  and  smashed  it  The  liquid  ran 
along  the  floor  to  his  face,  and  he  put  out  his  dry 
tongue  and  licked  up  a  little.  Then,  as  though  re- 
membering his  manners,  he  rolled  away  from  it,  and 
shut  his  eyes. 

When  consciousness  came  again  to  him  somebody 
was  knocking  at  the  outer  door  in  the  hall  beyond. 
A  few  minutes  later  there  was  a  shuffling  step,  and 
a  rap  upon  the  inner  door. 

"Sir,  are  you  awake?"  It  was  the  voice  of  his 
Egyptian  overseer. 

Jim  raised  himself  on  his  elbows,  thereby  disturb- 
ing the  crowd  of  crawling  flies  which  had  settled 
upon  his  face  and  body,  and  slo\Yly  turned  his  head 
in  the  direction  of  the  speaker.  "Go  away,  you 
idiot!"  he  husked.     "I've  got  cholera.      I'm  dying." 

"What  you  say?"  came  the  voice  from  the  other 
side.     "I  cannot  hear  you." 

"I've  got  cholera,"  he  repeated,  with  an  effort 
which  seemed  to  be  bursting  his  heart.  Then,  with 
another  purpose:  "I'm  nearly  well  now  ...  all 
right  in  an  hour  .  .  .  keep  away!" 


CHOLERA  21 

The  footsteps  shuffled  off  hurriedly,  then  stopped. 
*'I  go  fetch  Meester  Morgan:  he  is  here  this 
mornin'.  I  seen  him  comin'  'cross  the  river,"  the 
man  called  out;  and  the  footsteps  passed  out  of 
hearing. 

Another  convulsion :  but  this  time  there  was  no 
power  of  resistance  remaining,  and  long  before  the 
spasm  ceased  he  had  fainted.  The  next  thing  of 
which  he  was  aware  was  that  the  heavy  footstep 
of  Morgan  was  coming  towards  the  house.  That 
frightened  rat  of  an  overseer  had  fetched  him,  then, 
and  the  gigantic  fool  was  going  to  take  the  risk! 
What  use  was  he  now?  There  was  easy  Death  al- 
ready almost  in  possession:  not  the  laughing,  rare 
old  fellow  of  his  song,  but  beautiful  desirable  Rest. 

He  was  powerless  to  stop  the  man.  His  voice 
failed  to  rise  above  a  whisper  when  he  attempted 
to  call  out  a  warning.  Suddenly  his  eye  lighted 
on  the  jug  of  carbolic  a  yard  away.  At  least  he 
could  lessen  the  danger.  Slowly,  and  with  infinite 
pain,  he  wormed  himself  over  the  floor,  until  his 
limp  arm  touched  the  jug,  and  his  fingers  closed 
over  the  mouth.  A  feeble  pull,  and  the  jug  tot- 
tered; another,  and  it  fell  over  with  a  clatter,  and  the 
strong  disinfectant  ran  in  a  stream  around  him, 
under  him,  through  his  hair,  through  his  scanty 
clothes,  and  away  across  the  room. 

The  handle  of  the  door  rattled.  "Are  you  there, 
Easton?  Let  me  in! — I  know  how  to  doctor  you." 
Another  rattle.  "Let  me  in,  or  I'll  come  round  by 
the  window." 

But  Jim  did  not  answer.  He  lay  still  and  death- 
like as  the  hulking  figure  of  Morgan  scrambled  into 


22  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

the  room  through  the  window,  and  knelt  down  by 
his  side  on  the  wet  floor.  The  place  reeked  of  car- 
bolic: everything  was  saturated  with  it.  Morgan 
stepped  through  it  to  the  door,  and  pulled  back  the 
bolts.  Then,  slipping  and  sliding,  he  dragged  the 
half-naked,  dishevelled  body  by  the  armpits  into  the 
outer  room,  and,  propping  it  up  against  his  knees, 
felt  for  the  pulse  in  the  nerveless  wrist. 

The  morning  sun  poured  in  through  the  broken- 
down  verandah,  glistening  on  the  damp  hair  of  the 
exhausted  sufferer,  and  gleaming  upon  the  bearded, 
sweating  face  of  the  good  Samaritan. 

Jim  opened  his  eyes,  and  his  cracked  lips  moved. 
"Don't  be  a  damned  fool,"  he  whispered.  "Don't 
take  such  a  risk  .  .  .  every  man  for  himself  .  .  ." 
His  head  fell  forward  once  more,  and  his  eyes 
closed. 

"Oh,  rot!"  said  Morgan.  "You  brave  little 
chap! — I  think  you've  got  a  chance,  please  God." 


Chapter  II:     THE  CONVALESCENT 

A  NATIVE  doctor  belonging  to  the  Ministry 
of  Public  Health  arrived  at  K6m-es-Sultan 
during  the  afternoon,  having  travelled  up 
from  Luxor  in  response  to  the  telegram  reporting 
the  infection;  and  to  his  care  the  patient  was  handed 
over  by  Morgan,  who  had  refused  to  budge  until 
proper  arrangements  could  be  made.  When,  a  few 
days  later,  the  sick  man  was  able  to  be  moved,  he 
was  conveyed  down  to  Luxor  in  a  small  river- 
steamer  belonging  to  the  sugar  factory;  and,  after 
ten  days  in  the  local  hospital,  where,  in  spite  of 
the  great  heat,  he  was  very  tolerably  comfortable,  he 
was  able  to  go  north  in  the  sleeping-car  which,  on 
certain  nights  during  the  summer  weeks,  was  at- 
tached to  the  Cairo  express,  for  the  benefit  of  per- 
spiring English  officers  coming  down  from  the  Su- 
dan, and  weary  officials  whose  work  had  called  them 
out  into  these  sun-scorched  districts  of  Upper 
Egypt. 

The  doctor  In  Cairo  advised  him  to  move  down  to 
the  sea  as  soon  as  possible;  and  thus,  one  early 
evening  at  the  end  of  June,  as  the  glare  of  the  day 
was  giving  place  to  the  long  shadows  of  sunset,  Jim 
found  himself  driving  through  the  streets  of  Alex- 
andria towards  the  little  Hotel  dcs  Bcaux-I\sprlts 
which  stands  at  the  edge  of  the  Mediterranean,  not 
far  outside  the  city,   and  which  had  been  recom- 

23 


24  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

mended  to  him  as  the  inexpensive  resort  of  artists 
and  men  of  letters. 

He  leant  back  in  the  carriage  luxuriously,  and 
drank  the  cool  air  into  his  lungs  with  a  satisfaction 
which  those  alone  may  understand  who  have  known 
what  it  is  to  make  this  journey  out  of  the  inferno 
of  an  Upper  Egyptian  summer  into  the  compara- 
tively temperate  climate  of  the  sea  coast.  The 
streets  of  Alexandria  are  much  like  those  of  an  Ital- 
ian or  southern  French  city;  and  as  he  looked  about 
him  at  the  pleasant  shops  and  the  crowds  of  pedes- 
trians, for  the  most  part  European  or  Levantine,  he 
felt  as  though  he  had  recovered  from  some  sort  of 
tortured  madness,  and  had  suddenly  come  back  to 
the  comprehension  and  the  relish  of  intelligent  life. 

For  the  present  there  was  nothing  to  mar  his  hap- 
piness. The  greater  part  of  a  year's  salary  lay 
awaiting  him  in  the  bank,  for  in  the  desert  there 
had  been  no  means  of  spending  money,  and  his  losses 
had  equalled  his  winnings  at  those  daily  games  of 
cards  which  had  at  length  become  so  tedious.  The 
mines  would  remain  idle  in  any  event  until  the  tem- 
perature began  to  fall,  in  September;  and  thus  for 
the  two  months  of  his  summer  leave  he  could  take 
his  ease,  and  could  postpone  for  some  weeks  yet 
his  decision  as  to  whether  he  would  return  to  that 
fiery  exile,  or  would  fare  forth  again  upon  his  no- 
madic travels. 

His  recent  experiences  had  been  a  severe  shock 
to  him,  and  for  the  time  being,  at  any  rate,  he  felt 
that  he  never  wished  to  see  the  desert  again.  But 
perhaps  when  a  few  weeks  of  this  cool  sea  air  had 


THE  CONVALESCENT  25 

set  him  on  his  feet  once  more,  the  thought  of  his  re- 
turn to  the  mines  would  have  lost  its  terror. 

At  the  hotel  he  was  received  by  the  fat  and  moth- 
erly proprietress,  who,  having  diffidently  asked  for 
and  enthusiastically  received  a  week's  payment  in 
advance,  led  him  to  an  airy  room  overlooking  the 
sea,  and  left  him  with  many  assurances  that  he 
would  here  speedily  recover  from  the  indefinite 
stomachic  disturbances  which  he  told  her  had  re- 
cently laid  him  low. 

On  his  way  through  Cairo  he  had  purchased  quite 
a  respectable  suit  of  white  linen,  and  so  soon  as  he 
was  alone  he  set  about  the  happy  business  of  array- 
ing himself  as  a  civilized  personage.  Although  much 
exhausted  by  his  journey  he  was  eager  to  go  down 
and  sit  at  one  of  the  little  tables  overlooking  the 
sea,  there  to  drink  his  bouillon,  and  to  make  himself 
acquainted  with  his  fellow  guests;  and  he  paid  very 
little  regard  to  the  shaking  of  his  knees  and  the  ap- 
parent swaying  of  the  floor  when  a  struggle  with 
his  unruly  hair  had  taxed  his  strength.  Prudence 
suggested  that  he  should  remain  in  his  room  and 
rest;  but,  having  been  in  exile  so  long,  he  could 
not  resist  the  desire  to  be  downstairs,  enjoying  the 
coolness  of  the  evening,  looking  at  people  and  talk- 
ing to  them,  or  listening  to  the  music  provided  by 
the  mandolines  and  guitars  of  a  company  of  Italians 
who,  presumably,  earned  their  living  by  going  the 
round  of  the  smaller  hotels,  and  the  strains  of 
whose  romantic  songs  now  came  to  him,  mingled 
with  the  gentle  surge  of  the  waves. 

Presently,  therefore,  he  issued  from  his  room, 
and,  making  for  the  stairs,  found  himself  walking 


26  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

behind  a  young  woman  similarly  purposed.  He 
had  not  spoken  to  a  female  of  any  kind  for  nearly 
a  year,  and  this  fact  may  have  accounted  for  the 
quite  surprising  impression  her  back  view  made 
upon  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  a  won- 
derful pair  of  shoulders,  startling  black  hair,  and 
an  excellent  figure  excellently  garbed.  He  hoped 
devoutly  that  she  was  pretty;  but,  as  she  turned 
to  glance  at  him,  he  saw  that  her  face  was  per- 
haps more  interesting  than  actually  beautiful.  It 
was  like  an  ancient  Egyptian  bas-relief — an  Isis  or 
a  Hathor.  It  was  sufficiently  strange,  indeed,  with 
the  high  cheek-bones,  the  raven-black  hair,  and  the 
wise,  smiling  mouth,  to  arouse  his  curiosity,  and  her 
dark-fringed  grey  eyes  seemed  frankly  to  invite  his 
admiration. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  when  he  was  close  be- 
hind her,  he  suddenly  felt  giddy  again,  and  swayed 
towards  her;  at  which  she  stared  at  him  in  cold 
surprise. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  clutching  at  the 
banister,  and  wondering  why  the  light  had  become 
so  dim. 

A  moment  later  he  pitched  forward,  grabbed  at 
the  hand  she  instantly  held  out  to  him,  and  knew 
no  more. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  he  was  lying 
upon  the  bed  in  his  own  room,  and  this  black-haired 
woman  whom  he  had  seen  upon  the  stairs  was  lean- 
ing over  him — like  a  mother,  he  thought — dabbing 
his  forehead  with  water. 

"That's  better,"  he  heard  her  say.  "You'll  be 
all  right  now." 


THE  CONVALESCENT  27 

He  sat  up,  at  once  fully  aware  of  his  situation. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  exclaimed.     "Did  I  faint?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "I  caught  you  as  you 
fell." 

Jim  swore  under  his  breath.  "I've  been  111,"  he 
said.  "I  didn't  realize  I  was  so  weak.  Did  I  make 
an  awful  ass  of  myself?" 

"No,"  she  smiled,  "you  did  it  quite  gracefully; 
and  there  was  nobody  about;  they  were  all  at  din- 
ner." 

"Who  brought  me  up  here?"  he  asked. 

"I  and  the  two  native  servants,"  she  laughed, 
and  her  laughter  was  pleasant  to  hear.  "Are  you 
in  the  habit  of  fainting?" 

"I've  never  fainted  before  in  my  life,"  said  Jim, 
warmly,  "until  I  had  this  go  of  cholera." 

"Cholera?"  she  ejaculated.  "You've  had  chol' 
era?    How  long  ago?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  Infectious,"  he  smiled.  "It  was 
quite  a  while  ago."  He  gave  her  the  facts  with 
weary  brevity:  It  was  a  picture  that  he  wished  to 
banish  from  the  gallery  of  his  memory. 

"But,  my  dear  friend,"  she  said,  "when  you've 
just  come  out  of  the  jaws  of  death  like  that,  you 
must  take  things  easy.  You  ought  to  be  in  bed, 
toying  with  a  spoonful  of  jelly  and  a  grape.  What's 
your  name?" 

"Jim,"  he  answered.     "What's  yours?" 

"That  is  of  no  consequence,"  she  replied,  smiling 
at  him,  as  he  thought  to  himself,  like  a  heathen 
idol. 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  He  was  not 
quite  sure  whether  it  would  not  now  be  as  well  to 


28  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

kill  Mr.  Easton  and  resuscitate  Mr.  Tundering- 
West,  for  at  the  moment  he  was  anxious  to  forget 
entirely  his  Bedouin  life  and  his  exile  at  the  mines, 
and  he  was  no  longer  a  disreputable  beggar. 

"I'll  call  you  'Sister,'  "  he  said  at  length.  "That's 
what  the  patients  at  the  hospital  call  the  nurse, 
isn't  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  much  of  a  nurse,"  she  re- 
plied. "I've  torn  your  collar  in  getting  it  open,  and 
I've  dripped  water  all  down  your  coat." 

"I  bumped  into  you  when  I  fell,  didn't  I?"  he 
asked,  trying  to  recollect  what  had  happened. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "I  thought  you  were 
drunk." 

"Thanks  awfully,"  he  said. 

"Have  you  any  friends  to  look  after  you?"  she 
enquired  presently. 

"No,  nobody,  Sister,"  he  replied.     "Have  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  hardly  know  anybody, 
either.  I'm  a  painter.  I've  just  come  over  from 
Italy  to  do  some  work."  She  fetched  a  towel  from 
the  washing-stand.  "Now,  hold  your  head  up,  and 
let  me  dry  your  neck." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  happen  to  have  a  brandy 
and  soda  about  you?"  he  asked,  when  she  had  tidied 
him  up.  He  was  feeling  very  fairly  well  again,  but 
sorely  in  need  of  a  stimulant. 

"I'll  go  and  get  you  one,"  she  replied;  and  before 
he  could  make  any  polite  protest  she  had  left  the 
room. 

He  got  up  at  once  from  the  bed,  went  with  shak- 
ing legs  to  the  dressing-table  and  stared  at  himself 
in  the  glass.     "Good  Lord !"  he  muttered.     "I  look 


THE  CONVALESCENT  29 

like  an  organ-grinder  after  a  night  out."  He 
combed  his  damp  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  and 
sat  himself  down  on  the  sofa  near  the  open  window, 
a  shaded  candle  by  his  side.  The  night  was  sooth- 
ingly windless  and  quiet,  and  a  wonderful  full  moon 
was  rising  clear  of  the  haze  above  the  sea;  and  so 
extraordinary  was  it  to  him  to  feel  the  air  about 
him  temperate  and  kind  that  presently  a  mood  of 
great  content  descended  upon  him,  and,  after  his 
startling  experience,  he  was  no  longer  restless  to 
join  the  company  downstairs. 

In  a  short  time  his  nurse  returned,  bringing  him 
the  brandy-and-soda;  and  when  this  had  been  swal- 
lowed he  began  to  think  the  world  a  very  pleasant 
place. 

She  fetched  two  pillows  from  the  bed,  and  in 
motherly  fashion  placed  them  behind  his  head;  then, 
sitting  down  on  a  small  armchair  which  stood  near 
the  sofa,  she  asked  him  whether  he  intended  to  stay 
long  in  Alexandria. 

"1  have  no  plans,"  he  told  her.  **As  long  as 
I've  got  any  money  in  the  bank  I  never  do  have 
any.  When  the  money's  spent,  then  I  shall  begin 
to  think  what  to  do  next.  I'm  just  one  of  the 
Bedouin  of  life." 

"I  am  a  wanderer,  too,"  she  said.  And  there- 
with they  began  to  talk  to  one  another  as  only  wan- 
derers can  talk.  There  were  many  places  in  FVance 
and  Italy  known  to  them  both,  and  it  appeared  that 
they  had  been  in  Ceylon  at  the  same  time,  she  in 
Colombo,  and  he  up-country  in  search  of  his  moon- 
stones. 

He  felt  very  much  at  ease  with  her,  coming  soon, 


30  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

indeed,  to  regard  her  as  a  potential  confidant  of  his 
dreams.  Her  enigmatic  face  was  curiously  attrac- 
tive to  him,  particularly  so,  in  fact,  just  now,  with 
the  screen  of  the  candle  casting  a  soft  shadow  upon 
it,  so  that  the  grey  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  at 
him  through  a  veil.  He  began  to  wonder,  indeed, 
why  it  was  that  at  first  sight  he  had  not  regarded 
her  as  beautiful. 

For  half  an  hour  or  more  they  talked  quietly  but 
eagerly  together,  while  the  moon  rose  over  the  sea 
until  its  pale  light  penetrated  into  the  room,  and 
blanched  the  heavy  shadows. 

"Well,  I'm  ver}'  glad  I  fainted,"  he  said,  lightly, 

observing  that  she  was  about  to  take  her  departure. 

"So    am   I,"    she    answered,    smiling   at   him    as 

though  all  the  secrets  of  all  the  world  were  in  her 

wise  keeping. 

"Tell  me,  Sister,"  he  asked.  "Are  you  all  alone 
in  the  world?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  think  it's  quite  correct  to  be  sitting  in  a 
strange  man's  room?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Tramp!"  he  said. 

"Vagrant!"  she  replied. 

She  rose,  and  stood  awhile  gazing  out  of  the  open 
window — a  mysterious  figure,  looking  like  old  gold 
in  the  light  of  the  reading-lamp,  set  against  the 
sheen  of  the  moon. 

"It's  a  wonderful  night,"  he  remarked.  "You 
have  no  idea  what  it  means  to  me  to  feel  cool  and 
comfortable.  The  desert  up-country  is  the  very 
devil  in  summer." 


THE  CONVALESCENT  31 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  turning  to  him,  "one  can  un- 
derstand why  Cleopatra  and  her  Ptolemy  ances- 
tors left  the  old  cities  of  the  south,  and  built  their 
palaces  here  beside  the  sea." 

He  smiled,  knowingly.  "If  she  had  lived  up  there 
in  Thebes  where  the  old  Pharaohs  sweated,  there 
wouldn't  have  been  any  affair  with  Antony.  She 
would  have  been  too  busy  taking  cold  baths  and 
whisking  the  flies  away.  But  down  here — why,  the 
sound  of  the  sea  in  the  night  would  have  been 
enough  by  itself  to  do  the  trick." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "To  me,"  she  said, 
"the  sound  of  the  sea  on  a  summer  night  is  the 
most  tragic  and  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world.  If  I  ever  gave  up  wandering  and  came  to 
rest,  it  would  be  in  a  little  white  villa  somewhere 
on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean." 

"No,  for  my  part,  I  want  to  go  north  just  now," 
he  rejoined.  "I'm  tired  of  the  east  and  the  south: 
I've  got  a  longing  for  England." 

"It  won't  last,"  she  smiled.  "You  don't  fit  in 
with  England,  somehow." 

"Oh,  I'm  a  typical  Devon  man,"  he  declared, 
recalling,  with  a  sudden  feeling  of  pride,  the  origi- 
nal home  of  his  family,  previous  to  their  migration 
into  Oxfordshire. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.  "That  accounts 
for  it,"  she  said.  "The  men  of  Devon  so  often 
have  the  wandering  spirit."  She  held  out  her  hand. 
"I  must  go  now.  Good  night! — I'll  come  and  see 
how  you  are  in  the  morning.  My  room  is  next  to 
yours,  if  you  want  anything." 

"Good  night,  Sister!"  he  answered.     "I'm  most 


32  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

awfully  obliged  to  you.     You've  done  me  a  power 
of  good." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  the  calm,  mysterious  ex- 
pression of  the  old  gods  and  goddesses  carved  upon 
the  temple  walls,  and  went  out  of  the  room;  and 
thereafter  he  lay  back  on  his  pillows,  musing  on 
her  attractive  personality,  and  wondering  who  she 
was.  He  was  still  wondering  when,  some  minutes 
later,  the  native  servant  entered  with  a  tray  upon 
which  there  was  a  cup  of  soup,  some  jelly,  and  a 
bunch  of  grapes. 

"Madam  she  say  you  to  drink  it  all  the  soup," 
said  the  man,  "but  only  eat  three  grapes,  only  three, 
she  say,  sir,  please." 

'^ery  well,"  Jim  answered,  feeling  rather  pleased 
thus  to  receive  orders  from  her. 

That  night  he  slept  soundly,  and  awoke  refreshed 
and  almost  vigorous.  After  breakfast  in  bed  he  got 
up,  and  he  had  been  dressed  for  some  time  when 
his  self-constituted  nurse  came  to  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you're  up,"  she  said,  giving  his 
hand  an  honest  shake.  "I'm  going  to  take  you  out 
on  the  verandah  downstairs.  It's  beautifully  cool 
there." 

Jim  was  delighted.  She  looked  so  very  nice  this 
morning,  he  thought,  in  her  pretty  summer  dress 
and  wide-brimmed  hat;  and  her  smile  was  radiant. 
He  held  an  impression  from  the  night  before  that 
she  was  a  creature  of  mystery,  a  woman  out  of  a 
legend;  and  it  was  quite  a  relief  to  him  to  find  that 
now  in  the  daylight  she  was  a  normal  being. 

As  they  descended  the  stairs  she  put  her  hand 
under  his  elbow  to  aid  him,  and,  though  the  assist- 


THE  CONVALESCENT  33 

ance  was  quite  unnecessary,  it  pleased  him  so  much 
that  he  was  conscious  of  an  inchnation  to  play  the 
invahd  with  closer  similitude  than  actuality  war- 
ranted. Nobody  had  ever  looked  after  him  since 
he  was  a  child,  and,  as  in  the  case  of  all  men  who 
believe  they  detest  feminine  aid,  the  experience  was 
surprisingly  gratifying. 

On  the  verandah  they  sat  together  in  two  basket 
chairs,  and  presently  she  so  directed  their  conversa- 
tion that  he  found  himself  talking  to  her  as  though 
she  were  his  oldest  friend.  He  told  her  tales  of  the 
desert,  described  his  life  at  the  mines,  and  tried  to 
explain  the  dread  he  felt  at  the  thought  of  returning 
to  them.  There  was  no  complaint  in  his  words:  he 
was  something  of  a  fatalist,  and,  being  obliged  to 
earn  his  bread  and  butter,  he  supposed  his  lot  to  be 
no  worse  than  that  of  hosts  of  other  men.  After 
all,  anything  was  better  than  sitting  on  an  office 
stool. 

She  listened  to  him,  encouraging  him  to  talk;  and 
the  morning  was  gone  before  he  suddenly  became 
conscious  that  she  and  not  he  had  played  the  part  of 
listener. 

"Good  lord!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  I  must  be 
boring  you !  There  goes  the  bell  for  dejeuner. 
Why  didn't  you  stop  me?" 

"I  was  interested,"  she  replied,  turning  her  head 
aside.  "You  have  shown  me  a  part  of  life  I  knew 
nothing  about.  IVIy  own  wanderings  have  been  so 
much  more  sophisticated,  so  much  more  ordinary." 
She  looked  round  at  him  quickly.  "By  the  way,  I 
am  leaving  you  to-morrow.  I  have  to  go  to  Cairo 
for  a  week  or  so." 


34  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Jim's  face  fell.  "Oh  damn!"  he  said.  His  dis- 
appointment was  intense.  "Why  should  you  go  to 
Cairo?"  he  asked  gloomily.  "It's  a  beastly,  hot, 
unhealthy  place  at  this  time  of  year." 

"I  shan't  be  gone  long,"  she  answered.  "I  just 
have  to  paint  one  picture.  And  when  I  come  back 
I  shall  expect  to  find  you  strong  and  well  once  more. 
Then  we  can  do  all  sorts  of  wonderful  things  to- 
gether." She  paused,  looking  at  him  intently. 
"That  is  something  for  us  to  look  forward  to,"  she 
added,  as  though  she  were  talking  to  herself. 


Chapter  III:     MONIME 

JIM  felt  the  absence  of  his  new  friend  keenly. 
She  had  left  for  Cairo  quietly  and  unobtru- 
sively, just  driving  away  from  the  little  hotel 
with  a  wave  of  her  hand  to  him,  following  a  few 
words  of  good  advice  as  to  his  diet  and  be- 
haviour. He  had  asked  her  where  she  was  going 
to  stay,  hinting  that  he  would  like  to  write  to  her; 
but  she  had  evaded  a  definite  reply,  saying  merely 
that  she  was  going  to  the  house  of  some  friends. 
A  woman  is  a  figure  behind  a  veil.  It  is  her  nature 
to  elude,  it  is  her  happiness  to  have  something  to 
conceal;  and  man,  more  direct,  often  finds  in  her 
reticence  upon  some  unimportant  matter  a  cause  of 
deep  mystification. 

"I  don't  even  know  your  name,"  he  had  almost 
wailed,  and  she  had  answered,  gravely,  "Jemima 
Smith,"  as  though  she  expected  him  to  believe  it. 
The  hotel  register,  which  he  thereupon  consulted, 
contained  but  three  pertinent  words:  "Mdlle. 
Smith,  Londres,"  written  in  the  hand  of  the  French 
proprietress,  and  that  fat  personage  laughed  good- 
naturedly  and  shrugged  her  shoulders  when  he  ques- 
tioned the  accuracy  of  the  entry. 

The  first  days  seemed  dull  without  her;  but  soon 
the  brilliance  of  the  Alexandrian  summer  took  hold 
of  his  mind,  and  dressed  his  thoughts  in  bright  col- 
ours.    His  strength   returned  to   him   rapidly,   and 

35 


36  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

within  the  week  he  was  once  more  a  normal  being, 
able  to  sprawl  upon  the  beach  in  the  mornings  in 
the  shade  of  the  rocks,  staring  out  over  the  azure 
seas,  and  able,  in  the  cool  of  the  late  afternoons, 
to  go  to  the  Casino  to  listen  to  the  orchestra  and 
watch  the  cosmopolitan  crowd  taking  its  twilight 
promenade. 

And  then,  one  evening,  just  before  dinner,  as 
he  sat  himself  down  in  a  basket  chair  outside  the 
long  windows  of  his  bedroom,  high  above  the  surge 
of  the  breakers,  he  glanced  into  the  room  next  door, 
which  led  out  on  to  the  same  balcony,  and  there 
stood  his  friend,  unpacking  a  dressing-case  upon  a 
table  before  her. 

She  saw  him  at  the  same  moment,  and  at  once 
came  forward,  but  Jim  in  his  enthusiasm  was  half- 
way into  her  room  when  their  hands  met. 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you!"  he  exclaimed,  work- 
ing her  arm  up  and  down  as  though  it  were  a  pump- 
handle.     "It's  just  like  seeing  an  old  friend  again." 

She  smiled  serenely.  "Well,  we've  had  a  week 
to  think  each  other  over,"  she  said.  She  turned 
to  her  dressing-case  and  produced  a  small  parcel. 
"Here,   I've  brought  you  something  from  Cairo." 

It  was  only  a  box  of  cigarettes  of  a  brand  he  had 
happened  to  mention  in  commendation;  but  the  gift, 
and  her  words,  set  his  brain  in  a  whirl,  and  for  some 
minutes  he  talked  the  wildest  nonsense  to  her.  He 
was  flattered  that  she  had  turned  her  thoughts  to 
him  while  she  was  in  Cairo;  and  now,  standing  in 
her  bedroom,  he  was  possessed  by  a  feeling  of  inti- 
macy with  her.  He  wanted  to  put  his  arm  round 
her,  or  place  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  or  kiss 


MONIME  37 

her  fingers,  or  pull  her  hat  off,  or  lift  her  from  the 
ground,  or  something  of  that  kind.  Yet  he  felt  at 
the  same  time  a  kind  of  dread  lest  he  should  offend 
her.  He  was  perhaps  a  little  bewildered  in  her 
presence,  for,  in  some  indefinable  way,  she  repre- 
sented an  aspect  of  femininity  which  he  had  only 
known  in  imagination.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
coquette  about  her:  there  was  a  great  deal  of  roy- 
alty. He  was  inclined,  indeed,  to  wait  upon  her 
favours,  to  accept  her  largesse,  rather  than  to  ply 
her  with  pretty  speeches  and  attentions;  but  he  was 
by  no  means  certain  that  this  was  the  correct  method 
of  pleasing  her,  and  he  stood  now  before  her,  run- 
ning his  hands  through  his  hair  and  talking  ex- 
citedly. 

Presently,  however,  she  told  him  to  go  down- 
stairs and  to  wait  there  for  her  until  she  was  ready 
to  dine  with  him.  He  would  readily  have  waited 
all  night  for  her,  had  she  bid  him;  and  when,  after 
nearly  an  hour,  she  joined  him,  dressed  in  a  soft 
and  seductive  evening  garment,  he  led  her  to  their 
table  on  the  terrace  under  the  stars  like  a  bride- 
groom at  the  first  stage  of  his  honeymoon. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  conjunction  of  time 
and  place  more  seemly  for  romance  than  that  of  a 
night  in  June  beside  the  Alexandrian  surf.  The  ter- 
race whereon  their  table  was  set  was  built  out  upon 
a  head  of  rocks  against  the  base  of  which  the  rolling 
waves  of  the  Mediterranean  surged  unseen  in  the 
darkness  below,  as  they  had  surged  in  the  days  when 
Antony  lay  dreaming  here  in  the  arms  of  Cleopatra. 
The  whitewashed  walls  of  the  little  hotel,  with  the 
green-shuttered  windows  and  open  doorway  throw- 


38  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

ing  forth  a  warm  illumination,  differed  in  appear- 
ance but  little  from  those  of  a  Greek  villa  of  that 
far-off  age;  and  the  stately  palms  around  the  build- 
ing seemed  in  their  dignity  conscious  of  their  descent 
from  the  palms  of  the  Courts  of  the  Pharaohs. 

Across  the  bay  the  lights  of  the  city  were  reflected 
in  the  water,  and  overhead  the  stars  scintillated  like 
a  million  diamonds  spread  upon  blue  velvet.  The 
night  was  warm  and  breathless,  and  the  shaded 
candles  upon  the  table  burnt  with  a  steady  flame, 
throwing  a  rosy  glow  upon  the  intent  faces  of  the 
two  who  sat  here  alone,  the  other  guests  having 
finished  their  meal  and  gone  to  the  far  side  of  the 
hotel,  where  the  guitars  and  mandolines  were  thrum- 
ming. 

Their  conversation  wandered  from  subject  to  sub- 
ject: it  was  as  though  they  were  feeling  their  way 
with  one  another,  each  eagerly  attempting  to  dis- 
cover the  thoughts  of  the  other,  each  anxious  that  no 
fundamental  disagreement  should  be  revealed,  and 
relieved  as  point  after  point  of  accord  was  found. 
To  Jim  it  seemed  as  though  the  gates  of  his  heart 
were  being  slowly  rolled  back,  and  as  though  the 
strange,  wise  face,  so  close  to  his  own,  were  peering 
into  the  sanctuary  of  his  soul,  demanding  admit- 
tance and  possession. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed  at  length.  "This 
is  too  ridiculous!  Here  am  I  falling  in  love  with  a 
woman  whose  very  name  I  don't  know." 

She  smiled  serenely  at  him,  as  though  his  words 
were  the  most  natural  in  the  world.  "Why  not  call 
me  Monime?"  she  said.  "Some  people  call  me  that. 
Do  you  know  the  story  of  Monime?" 


MONIME  39 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"She  was  a  Grecian  girl  who  lived  in  the  city 
of  Miletus  on  the  banks  of  Maeander,  the  wandering 
river  of  Phrygia,  and  there  she  might  have  lived 
all  her  life,  and  might  have  married  and  had  six 
children;  but  Mithridates,  King  of  Pontus,  saw  her 
one  day  and  fell  in  love  with  her  and  somehow  man- 
aged to  make  her  believe  she  loved  him,  too." 

The  mandolines  in  the  distance  were  playing  the 
haunting  melody  "Sorrento,"  and  the  soft  refrain, 
blending  with  the  sound  of  the  sea,  formed  a  dreamy 
accompaniment  to  the  story. 

"He  carried  her  away  and  gave  her  a  golden 
diadem,  and  made  her  his  queen;  but  the  legions 
of  Rome  came  and  defeated  Mithridates,  and  he 
sent  his  eunuch,  Bacchides,  to  her,  here  in  Alex- 
andria, where  she  had  fled,  bidding  her  kill  herself, 
as  he  was  about  to  do,  rather  than  endure  the 
disgrace  of  her  adopted  dynasty.  She  did  not  want 
to  die,  but,  like  an  obedient  wife,  she  took  the 
diadem  from  her  head,  and  tried  to  strangle  herself 
by  fastening  the  silken  cords  around  her  throat." 

"I  remember  now,"  said  Jim.  "It  is  one  of  the 
stories  from  Plutarch.     Go  on." 

"The  cords  broke,  and  thereupon  she  uttered  that 
famous,  bitter  cry:  'O  wretched  diadem,  unable  to 
help  me  even  in  this  little  matter !'  And  she  threw 
it  from  her,  and  ordered  Bacchides  to  kill  her  with 
his  sword.  .  .  ." 

She  paused  anJ  stared  with  fixed  gaze  across  the 
bay  to  the  lights  of  Ras-cl-Tin,  and  those  of  the 
houses  which  stood  where  once  Cleopatra's  palace 
of  the  Lochias  had  towered  above  the  sea. 


40  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

The  native  waiter  had  removed  the  debris  of  their 
meal  from  the  table,  and  the  candles  had  been  extin- 
guished. Her  hands  rested  upon  the  arms  of  her 
chair,  and  there  was  that  In  her  attitude  which  in 
the  dim  light  of  the  waning  moon,  now  rising  over 
the  sea,  suggested  a  Pharaonic  statue. 

"She  died  just  over  there  across  the  water,"  she 
said  at  length.     "Poor  Monlme.  .  .  ." 

Jim  put  his  hand  upon  hers.  Very  slowly  she 
turned  to  him,  looked  him  in  the  eyes  steadily, 
looked  down  at  his  hand,  and  then  again  looked 
into  his  face. 

"Monlmc,"  he  whispered,  and  presently,  receiv- 
ing no  response,  he  added,  "What  are  you  thinking 
about?" 

"The  River  Mceander,"  she  answered.  "Our 
word  'meander'  Is  derived  from  that  name,  because 
of  the  river's  wanderings.  I  was  thinking  how  I 
have  meandered  through  life,  and  now  .  .  ." 

"I  have  no  diadem  to  offer  you,"  he  said  fer- 
vently; "but  all  that  I  have  is  yours  to-night.  I 
know  nothing  about  you:  I  don't  know  where  you 
come  from;  I  don't  know  your  name.  I  know  only 
that  you  have  come  to  me  out  of  my  dreams.  It's 
as  though  you  were  not  real  at  all — just  part  of  this 
Alexandrian  night;  and  I  want  to  hold  you  close  to 
me,  so  that  you  shall  not  fade  away  from  me." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  presently  he  asked  her 
if  she  had  nothing  to  say  to  him. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "there  Is  nothing  to  be  said, 
Jim.  This  thing  has  come  to  us  so  quickly:  It  may 
pass  away  again  so  soon.     It  is  better  to  say  little." 


MONIME  41 

There  came  Into  his  mind  those  lines  of  Shelley 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it.  .  .  . 

Yet  he  must  needs  utter  that  word,  though  the  past 
and  the  future  rise  up  to  belittle  it. 

"I  love  you,"  he  whispered.  "Monime,  I  love 
you." 

"Men  have  said  that  to  me  before,"  she  an- 
swered, "and  there  was  one  man  whom  I  believed 
.  .  .  We  built  the  house  of  our  life  upon  that  foun- 
dation, but  it  fell  to  ruins  all  the  same.  Soon  he 
ceased  to  tell  me  that  he  loved  me." 

"You  are  a  married  woman  then?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Tell  me  who  you  are,"  he  begged. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  replied.  "I  have 
no  name.     I  have  left  him." 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"Because  we  disliked  one  another.  It  seemed  to 
me  altogether  wrong  that  a  man  and  a  woman  to- 
tally out  of  sympathy  with  one  another  should  con- 
tinue to  live  together.  So  I  made  my  exit.  I  live 
by  selling  my  pictures." 

"Were  there  any  children?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "If  there  had  been,  I  sup- 
pose I  should  have  remained  with  him.  Like 
flowers,  they  hide  many  a  sepulchre." 

"It  was  brave  of  you  to  go,"  he  said. 

"I  felt  it  to  be  a  woman's  right,"  she  declared, 
spreading  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  conviction. 
"Since  then  I  have  been  a  wanderer,  I've  had 
some   hours   of  happiness,   some   of  loneliness,   Init 


42  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

always  there  has  been  my  independence  to  cheer 
me,  and  the  knowledge  that  I  have  been  faithful 
to  my  sex,  and  have  not  misled  others  by  the  usual 
shams  and  pretences  of  the  disillusioned  wife." 

"And  what  about  the  future?"  he  asked. 

"My  dear,"  she  smiled,  "the  future  is  a  veil  of 
fog  that  only  lifts  for  the  passage  of  a  soul.  When 
I  am  about  to  die  I  will  tell  you  of  my  future.  But 
now,  while  I  am  in  the  midst  of  life,  only  the  pres- 
ent counts." 

For  some  time  they  talked;  but  at  length  when 
the  little  band  of  musicians,  whose  songs  had  formed 
a  distant  accompaniment  to  their  thoughts,  had 
gone  their  way,  and  the  sound  of  the  sea  alone  trav- 
ersed the  silence,  she  suggested  that  he  should  bring 
down  his  guitar  and  play  to  her. 

"The  proprietress  tells  me  she  has  heard  you 
playing  in  your  room,"  she  smiled.  "She  described 
it  as  trc's  agrcable  mais  un  pen  mclaticolique." 

Jim  was  not  very  willing  to  comply,  for  he  had 
been  termed  a  howling  jackal  at  the  mines,  and, 
indeed,  he  had  once  been  obliged  to  black  a  man's 
eye  for  throwing  something  at  him.  He  had  no 
wish  to  fight  anybody  to-night. 

His  companion,  however,  was  so  insistent  that 
he  was  obliged  to  fetch  the  instrument  and  to  sing 
to  her.  The  darkness  aided  him  in  overcoming  a 
feeling  of  shyness,  and  presently  he  passed  into  a 
mood  which  was  conducive  to  song.  He  sang  at 
first  in  quiet  tones,  and  his  fingers  struck,  so  lightly 
upon  the  strings  that  sometimes  the  rich  chords 
were  lost  in  the  murmur  of  the  surf.  From  sad 
old  negro  melodies  he  passed  to  curious  chanties  of 


MONIME  43 

the  sea,  and  thence  to  the  wistful  music  of  the  Ital- 
ian peasants;  and  as  he  sang  his  diffidence  left  him, 
and  soon  his  fine  voice  was  strong  enough  to  be 
heard  in  the  hotel,  so  that  the  proprietress  and  some 
of  her  guests  came  tip-toeing  out  and  stood  listen- 
ing near  the  open  door,  the  light  from  the  passage 
illuminating  their  motionless  figures  and  casting 
their  black  shadows  across  the  gravel  and  on  to  the 
encircling  palms. 

"Listen,"  said  Jim,  at  length.  "I'll  sing  you 
some  verses  I  made  up  when  I  was  in  Ceylon." 

It  was  a  song  which  told  of  a  silent,  enchanted 
city  built  by  ancient  kings  upon  the  shores  of  an 
uncharted  sea,  where  there  were  pavilions  of  white 
marble  whose  pinnacles  shot  up  to  the  stars,  seem- 
ing to  touch  the  Milky  Way,  and  whose  domes 
were  so  lofty  that  at  moonrise  their  silver  orbs 
were  still  tinged  with  the  gold  of  the  sunset.  It 
told  how  here,  upon  a  bed  of  crystal,  there  slept  a 
woman  whose  hair  was  as  dark  as  the  wrath  of 
heaven,  whose  breast  was  as  white  as  the  snowclad 
mountain-tops,  and  whose  lips  were  as  red  as  sin; 
and  how,  upon  a  hot,  still  night  there  came  a  lost 
mariner  to  these  shores,  who  passed  up  through  the 
deserted  streets  of  the  city,  and  ascended  a  thou- 
sand stairs  to  the  crystal  couch,  and  kissed  the 
mouth  of  the  sleeper.  .  .  . 

When  he  had  ended  the  song  there  was  a  moment 
of  silence  before  Monime  turned  to  him.  "Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  you  have  to 
earn  your  living  at  the  mines  when  you  can  write 
verses  like  that?" 

"Oh,    it's    only   doggerel,"    he    laughed,    "anil    I 


44  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

cribbed  most  of  the  music  from  things  I'd  heard." 

"Have  you  got  the  poem  written  down?"  she 
asked. 

"No,  I've  lost  my  only  copy,"  he  answered.  "I 
stuffed  it  into  a  hole  in  the  woodwork,  of  my  berth 
on  a  certain  tramp  steamer,  to  keep  the  cockroaches 
from  coming  out.  I  never  could  get  used  to  cock- 
roaches." 

"Jim,"  she  said,  taking  his  hands  in  hers,  "you 
are  wasting  your  life." 

"I  am  living  for  the  first  time  to-night,"  he  re- 
plied. 

It  was  midnight  when  at  length  they  ascended 
the  stairs  to  their  rooms,  but  there  was  on  his 
part  a  mere  pretence  of  bidding  good-night  at  their 
doors.  He  knew  well  enough  that  presently  he 
would  attempt  to  renew  their  wonderful  romance 
upon  the  balcony  which  connected  their  two  rooms; 
but  for  the  moment  the  serene  inscrutability  of  her 
face  baffled  him.  She  neither  made  advance  towards 
him,  nor  retreat  from  him.  She  seemed,  mentally, 
to  be  standing  her  ground,  undisturbed,  unmoved. 
The  wisdom  of  the  ages  was  in  her  eyes,  and  the 
smile  of  precognition  was  on  her  lips. 

In  love,  man  is  so  simple,  woman  so  wise.  Man 
blunders  along,  taking  his  chance  as  to  whether  he 
shall  find  favour  or  give  offence;  woman  alone  knows 
when  the  great  moment  has  come,  that  moment 
when  the  time  and  the  place  and  the  person  are 
plaited  into  the  perfect  pattern.  Some  women  be- 
tray that  knowledge  in  their  agitation;  some  are 
made  shy  by  the  revelation;  some,  again,  have  the 
imperturbable    confidence    of    their    intuition,    and 


MONIME  45 

these  last  alone  are  the  celestials,  the  daughters  of 
Aphrodite,  the  children  of  Isis  and  Hathor. 

In  his  room  Jim  sat  for  awhile  upon  the  side  of 
his  bed,  trying  to  fathom  the  unfathomable  mean- 
ing of  her  expression.  His  brain  was  full  of  her — 
her  hair  black  as  the  Eg}'ptian  darkness,  her  eyes 
grey  as  the  twilight,  and  her  flesh  like  the  alabaster 
of  the  Mokattam  Hills.  There  was  such  mod- 
esty, such  reserve  in  her  bearing,  and  yet  with  these 
qualities  there  went  a  kind  of  confidence,  a  self- 
assurance,  which  he  could  not  define.  In  her  pres- 
ence he  became  aware  of  the  shortcomings  of  his 
own  sex,  rather  than  of  his  mastery;  yet  at  the 
same  time  he  was  conscious  of  an  overwhelming  in- 
tensification of  his  manhood. 

At  last,  a  cigarette  as  his  excuse,  he  stepped  out 
on  to  the  balcony,  and  for  some  moments  stood  look- 
ing out  to  sea.  When  he  took  courage  to  turn 
towards  her  window  he  found  that  though  the  light 
in  the  room  was  still  burning,  the  shutters  were 
closed;  and  thus  he  remained,  staring  at  the  green 
woodwork  for  what  seemed  an  interminable  time. 

He  was  about  to  go  back  disconsolately  to  his 
room  when  the  light  was  extinguished,  and  the  shut- 
ters were  quietly  pushed  open.  Who  shall  say 
whether  she  knew  that  Jim  was  standing  in  silence 
upon  the  balcony,  or  whether,  being  prepared  for 
her  bed,  she  now  merely  opened  the  windows  that 
the  cool  of  the  night  might  bring  her  refreshing 
sleep?  Woman  is  wise:  she  knows  if  the  hour 
be  meet. 


Chapter  IV:     BEDOUIN  LOVE 

JIM  awoke  next  morning  with  the  feeling  that 
he  had  come  back  to  earth  from  heaven,  i  he 
events  of  the  night  before  seemed  to  belong 
to  a  world  of  enchantment,  and  had  no  relation  to 
the  keen,  practical  sunlight  which  now  struck  into 
his  room  through  the  open  windows,  nor  to  the  cool 
sea  breeze  which  waved  the  curtains  to  and  fro, 
nor  yet  to  the  vivid  blue  sea  and  the  clean-cut  rocks 
which  came  into  sight  as  he  sat  up  in  bed. 

"In  the  next  room,"  he  mused  to  himself,  "sleeps 
a  woman  who  in  the  darkness  was  to  me  the  gate- 
way of  my  dreams,  but  who  in  this  bright  sunlight 
will  be  again  only  a  capable,  pretty  creature  and  an 
amusing  companion.  Night,  after  all,  is  woman's 
kingdom,  and  in  it  she  is  mistress  of  all  the  magic 
arts  of  enchantment,  she  becomes  greater  than  her- 
self; but  day  belongs  to  man.  How,  then,  shall  I 
greet  her? — for  my  very  soul  seemed  surrendered 
to  her  a  few  hours  ago,  yet  now  I  find  myself  still 
master  of  my  destiny." 

Like  an  artist  who  steps  back  to  view  his  picture, 
or  like  a  poet  who  measures  up  his  dream,  he  al- 
lowed his  mind  to  take  stock  of  his  emotions.  When 
her  head  had  been  thrown  back  upon  the  pillows, 
and  the  white  column  of  her  throat  could  be  seen 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  moon  against  the  black  con- 
fusion of  her  hair,  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  the 

46 


BEDOUIN   LOVE  47 

marks  of  the  chisel  of  the  Divine  Artist  were  im- 
pressed upon  the  alabaster  of  her  flesh.  It  was  as 
though,  gazing  down  at  her  beauty,  his  eyes  had 
been  opened  and  he  had  beheld  the  handicraft  of 
Paradise. 

And  when,  in  his  ardour,  he  had  had  the  feeling 
of  not  knowing  what  next  to  do  nor  what  words 
to  utter,  her  silencing  loveliness  had  baffled  him,  so 
it  seemed,  because  her  body  was  stamped  with  the 
seal  of  the  Infinite  and  fashioned  in  the  likeness  of 
God.  True,  she  was  but  imperfect  woman;  yet 
the  art  of  the  Lord  of  Arts  had  created  her,  and, 
by  the  magic  of  the  night,  he  had  found  her  rich  in 
the  inimitable  craftsmanship  of  heaven. 

He  had  seen  the  glory  of  heaven  in  her  eyes. 
He  had  heard  the  voice  of  all  the  ages  in  her  voice. 
In  the  touch  of  her  lips  there  had  been  the  rapture 
of  the  spheres,  and  the  gods  of  the  firmament  had 
seemed  to  ride  out  upon  the  tide  of  her  breath. 

But  was  it  she  whom  he  had  wanted  when  he 
held  her  pinioned  in  his  arms?  He  could  not  say. 
It  seemed  more  reasonable  to  suppose  that  through 
her  he  was  looking  towards  the  splendour  which  his 
soul  sought.  She  was  but  the  necromancy  by  which 
he  had  carried  earth  up  to  heaven;  she  was  the 
magic  by  which  he  had  brought  heaven  down  to  the 
earth.  She  had  been  the  door  of  his  dreams,  the 
portal  of  the  sky;  and  through  her  he  had  made 
his  incursion  into  the  kingdom  beyond  the  stars. 

"It  was  only  an  illusion,"  he  said,  as  he  stood 
at  the  window,  invigorated  by  the  breeze.  "We 
are  actually  almost  strangers.  I  don't  know  any- 
thing  about   her,   and  she  knows   little   of  me.      It 


48  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

was  the  magic  of  the  night  employed  by  scheming 
Nature  for  her  one  unchanging  purpose;  and  all 
that  happened  in  the  darkness  will  be  forgotten 
in  the  sunlight.     We  shall  meet  as  friends." 

To  some  extent  he  was  right,  for  when  at  mid- 
morning  she  came  down  to  the  blazing  beach  and 
seated  herself  by  his  side  in  the  shade  of  the  rocks, 
she  greeted  him  quietly  and  serenely,  with  neither 
embarrassment  nor  familiarity. 

"Are  you  going  to  bathe  this  morning?"  he  asked 
her,  and  on  her  replying  in  the  affirmative,  he  told 
her  that  he  thought  he  was  well  enough  to  do  so, 
too.  At  this  she  showed  some  concern,  but  he  re- 
minded her  that  the  water,  at  any  rate  near  the 
shore,  was  warm  to  the  touch  and  was  hardly  likely 
to  do  him  harm. 

The  little  sandy  bay,  flanked  by  rocks  which  pro- 
jected into  the  sea,  was  the  site  of  a  number  of 
bathing  huts  and  tents  used  by  the  Europeans  who 
lived  in  the  surrounding  villas  and  bungalows.  The 
breakers  rolled  in  upon  this  golden  crescent,  con- 
tinuously driven  forward  by  the  prevalent  north- 
west wind;  but  at  one  side  a  barrier  of  low,  shelving 
rocks  formed  a  small  lagoon  where  the  water  was 
peaceful,  and  one  might  look  down  to  the  bottom, 
ten  or  twelve  feet  below  the  surface,  and  see  the 
brilliant  shells  and  seaweeds  almost  as  clearly  as 
though  they  were  in  the  open  air.  So  strong  was 
the  summer  sunlight  that  every  object  and  every 
plant  at  the  bottom  cast  its  shadow  sharply  upon 
the  sparkling  bed;  and  the  passage  of  little  wan- 
dering fishes  was  marked  by  corresponding  shadows 
which  moved  over  the  fairyland  below. 


BEDOUIN   LOVE  49 

It  was  not  long  before  Jim  and  Monime  were 
swimming  side  by  side  across  this  small  lagoon  to 
the  encircling  wall  of  rocks,  and  soon  they  had  clam- 
bered on  to  them  and  had  seated  themselves  where 
the  surf  rushed  towards  them  from  the  open  azure 
sea  on  the  one  side,  drenching  them  with  cool  spray, 
and  on  the  other  side  the  low  cliffs  and  rocks,  sur- 
mounted by  the  clustered  palms,  were  reflected  in 
the  still  water.  Here  they  sunned  themselves  and 
talked;  and  from  time  to  time,  when  the  heat  be- 
came too  great,  they  dived  down  together  with  open 
eyes  into  the  cool,  brilliant  depths,  gliding  amongst 
the  coloured  sea-plants,  grimacing  at  one  another 
as  they  scrambled  for  some  conspicuous  pebble  or 
shell,  and  rising  again  to  the  surface  in  a  cloud  of 
bubbles. 

It  was  a  joyous,  exhilarating,  agile  occupation, 
far  removed  from  the  enchantments  of  the  darkness; 
and  the  glitter  of  sun  and  sea  effectually  diminished 
the  lure  of  the  night's  witchery. 

"You  know,"  said  Jim,  suddenly  looking  at  his 
companion,  as  they  lay  basking  upon  the  spray- 
splashed  rocks,  "I  can  hardly  believe  last  night  was 
anything  but  a  dream." 

"Let  us  pretend  that  it  was,"  she  answered.  She 
pointed  down  into  the  translucent  water.  "Life  is 
like  that,"  she  said.  "We  dive  down  into  those  won- 
derful depths  when  the  glare  of  actuality  is  too 
great,  and  we  see  all  the  pretty  shells  down  there; 
and  then  we  have  to  come  up  to  the  surface  again, 
or  we  should  drown." 

"I  see,"  he  replied;  "I  was  just  a  passing  fancy 
of  yours." 


50  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

She  answered  him  gravely.  "Women  in  that  re- 
spect are  not  so  different  to  men.  Judge  me  by 
yourself." 

"Oh,  but  there's  a  world  of  difference,"  he  said, 
chilled  by  her  words.  "I  am  simply  a  vagabond, 
a  wandering  Bedouin,  here  to-day  and  over  the  hills 
and  far  away  to-morrow." 

"I  am  also  a  wanderer,"  she  smiled.  "We  are 
both  free  beings  who  have  broken  away  from  the 
beaten  path.  We  both  earn  our  living,  and  claim 
our  independence." 

"Yet  the  difference  is  this,"  he  reminded  her, 
"that  the  world  will  shrug  its  shoulders  at  my  ac- 
tions, but  will  condemn  yours." 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "Oh,  that 
thread-bare  truism!"  she  said.  "I  have  turned  my 
back  on  the  world,  and  I  don't  care  what  it  thinks. 
I  act  according  to  my  principles,  and  in  this  sort 
of  thing  the  first  principle  is  very  simple.  If  a 
woman  is  a  thoughtful,  responsible  being,  earning 
her  own  living,  and  able  to  lead  her  own  life  with- 
out being  in  the  slightest  degree  dependent  on  the 
man  of  her  choice,  or  on  any  other  living  soul,  she 
is  entitled  to  respond  to  the  call  of  nature  at  that 
precious  and  rare  moment  when  her  heart  tells  her 
to  do  so.  There  should  be  no  such  thing  as  a  dif- 
ferent law  for  the  man  and  for  the  woman :  there 
should  only  be  a  different  law  for  the  self-supporting 
and  the  dependent.  The  sin  is  when  a  woman  is  a 
parasite." 

With  that  she  took  a  header  into  the  water,  and 
he  watched  her  gliding  amidst  the  swaying  tendrils 
of  the  sea-plants,  like  a  sinuous  mermaiden. 


BEDOUIN  LOVE  51 

When  she  rose  to  the  surface  once  more  he  dived 
in,  and  swam  over  to  her,  his  face  emerging  but  a 
few  inches  from  hers.  "Do  you  love  me  ?"  he  asked, 
smiling  amongst  the  bubbles. 

"No,  I  hate  you,"  she  replied,  striking  out  to- 
wards the  shore. 

"Why?"  he  called  after  her. 

"Because  you  haven't  the  sense  to  leave  well 
alone,"  she  said,  and  thereat  she  dived  once  more, 
nor  came  to  the  surface  again  until  she  had  reached 
shallow  water. 

At  luncheon  she  met  him  with  an  ambiguous 
smile  upon  her  lips;  but  finding  that  he  was  not 
eating  his  food  with  much  appetite,  she  at  once  be- 
came motherly  and  solicitous,  refused  to  allow  him 
to  eat  the  salad,  offered  to  cut  up  the  meat  for  him, 
and  directed  the  waiter  to  bring  some  toast  in  place 
of  the  over-fresh  roll  which  he  was  about  to  break. 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  meal  she  ordered  him  to 
take  a  siesta  in  his  room,  and  in  this  he  was  glad 
enough  to  obey  her,  for  he  was  certainly  tired. 

When  he  woke  up,  an  hour  or  so  later,  and  pres- 
ently went  out  on  to  the  balcony,  he  saw  her  stand- 
ing in  her  room,  contemplating  her  painting  mate- 
rials. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  "Have  you  had  a  good  sleep?"  she 
inquired.  "Sit  down  and  talk  to  me.  I  have  a 
feeling  of  loneliness  this  afternoon.  I'm  not  in  a 
mood  to  paint;  yet  I  suppose  I  must,  or  I  shall  run 
short  of  money." 

He  went  to  her  side  and  put  his  hands  upon  her 


52  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

shoulders,  drawing  her  to  him;  but  she  pushed  him 
away  from  her,  with  averted  face. 

"I  said  'sit  down,'  "  she  repeated. 

Jim  was  abashed.  "You're  very  difficult,"  he  told 
her.  "I  think  that  under  the  circumstances  I'd  bet- 
ter go.     I  don't  know  where  I  am  with  you." 

"You  haven't  tried  to  find  out,"  she  answered. 
"You're  quite  capable  of  understanding  me  :  I  should 
never  have  let  you  come  into  my  life  at  all  if  I 
had  not  been  certain  that  you  had  it  in  you  to  under- 
stand." 

"Tact  is  not  my  strong  point,"  he  said.  "I'm 
just  a  man." 

"Nonsense!"  she  replied.  "Don't  belittle  your- 
self." 

He  was  puzzled.  "Why,  what's  wrong  with 
men?" 

"Their  refusal  to  study  women,"  she  answered. 

She  was  not  in  a  communicative  mood,  and 
would  not  be  drawn  into  argument.  He  was  left, 
thus,  with  a  disconcerting  sense  of  frustration,  bor- 
dering on  annoyance.  It  seemed  evident  to  him 
that  yesterday,  by  some  secret  conjunction  of  the 
planets,  so  to  speak,  their  destinies  had  met  to- 
gether in  one  sentient  hour  of  sympathy;  but  that 
now  they  had  sprung  apart  once  more,  and  he  knew 
not  what  stars  in  their  courses  would  bring  back  to 
him  the  ripe  and  mystic  moment. 

An  appalling  loneliness  descended  like  a  cloud 
upon  him,  and  he  was  conscious  that  she  too,  was 
experiencing  the  same  feeling.  It  was  the  lot,  he 
supposed,  of  all  persons  who  were  born  with  the 


BEDOUIN   LOVE  53 

Bedouin  temperament;  and  he  accepted  it  with  res- 
ignation. 

At  length  she  conducted  him — or  did  he  lead  her? 
— down  to  the  verandah  of  the  hotel;  and  now  she 
had  her  paints  with  her,  and  occupied  herself  in 
making  some  colour-notes  of  the  brilliant  sea  which 
stretched  before  them,  and  of  the  golden  rocks  and 
vivid  green  palms.  Jim,  meanwhile,  read  an  Eng- 
lish newspaper,  some  weeks  old,  which  he  had 
chanced  upon  in  the  salon;  but  from  time  to  time 
he  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  watched  her  as  she 
worked,  his  admiration  manifesting  itself  in  his  eyes. 

"What  are  you  staring  at?"  she  asked  him,  pres- 
ently. 

"I  was  admiring  the  way  you  handle  your  paints,'* 
he  replied.     "You're  a  real  artist." 

"The  fact  that  a  woman  paints,"  she  remarked, 
"does  not  mean  that  she  is  an  artist,  any  more 
than  the  fact  that  she  talks  means  that  she  is  a 
thinker.  To  be  an  artist  requires  two  things,  firstly, 
that  you  have  something  to  express,  and,  only  sec- 
ondly, that  you  know  technically  how  to  express  it. 
It  is  the  point  of  view,  the  angle  of  vision,  that 
counts;  and  in  fact  one  can  say  that  primarily  one 
must  live  an  art." 

He  nodded.  He  wondered  whether  the  events 
of  the  previous  night  were  but  the  living  of  her  art; 
and  the  thought  engendered  a  kind  of  mild  bitter- 
ness which  led  him  to  give  her  measure  for  meas- 
ure. "I  know  what  you  mean  so  well,"  he  said, 
"because  I  happen  to  have  the  talent  to  put  things 
into  nice  metre  and  rhyme;  but  it  is  the  subject  mat- 
ter that  really  counts,  and  that's  where  I   feel  my 


54  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

stuff  is  so  flat.  Sometimes  I  am  obliged  to  seek  ex- 
perience to  help  me." 

"You  must  let  me  see  some  of  these  poems,"  she 
said,  pursuing  the  theme  no  further. 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  are  only  doggerel, 
like  the  one  I  sang  last  night,"  he  laughed.  "They 
are  as  shallow  as  my  heart." 

She  resumed  her  painting  and  he  his  reading;  but 
his  mind  was  not  following  the  movement  of  his  eyes. 

He  was  thinking  how  little  he  understood  his 
companion.  She  was  clearly  a  woman  of  strong 
views,  one  who  had  taken  her  life  into  her  own 
hands  and  was  facing  the  world  with  reliant  cour- 
age. In  fact,  it  might  be  said  of  her  that  she  was 
the  sort  of  woman  who  would  not  be  turned  from 
what  she  knew  to  be  right  by  any  qualms  of  guilty 
conscience.  He  smiled  to  himself  at  the  epigram, 
and  again  allowed  his  thoughts  to  speculate  upon 
her  alluring  personality. 

He  found  at  length,  however,  that  the  matter 
was  beyond  him;  and  presently  he  turned  to  his 
reading  once  more. 

It  was  while  he  was  so  engaged  that  suddenly 
he  sat  up  in  his  chair,  gazing  with  amazement  at 
the  printed  page  before  him. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  whispered,  pronouncing  the 
words  slowly  and  capaciously.  There  was  a  crazy 
look  of  astonishment  upon  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  glancing  at  him, 
but  unable  to  tell  from  the  whimsical  expression  of 
his  mouth  and  eyes  what  manner  of  news  had  taken 
his  attention. 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  did  not  see  her. 
Then  he  read  once  more  the  words,  which  seemed 


BEDOUIN   LOVE  55 

to  dance  before  him,  and  again  stared  through  her 
into  the  distance  of  his  breathless  thoughts. 

"News  that  concerns  you?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded,  holding  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 

•'Bad  news?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  as  though  speaking  in  a 
dream.     "Very  bad  .  .  .  wonderful !" 

She  could  not  help  smiling,  and  her  intuition 
quickly  jumped  to  the  truth.  "Somebody  has  died 
and  left  you  some  money?"  she  suggested. 

He  uttered  an  almost  hysterical  laugh.  "I'm 
free!"  he  cried.  "Free!  I  shall  never  have  to  go 
back  to  the  mines." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  folding  the  newspaper, 
and  crushing  it  in  his  hand. 

"Don't  go  and  faint  again,"  she  said,  quietly. 

He  laughed  loudly,  and  a  moment  later  was 
hastening  into  the  hotel.  He  snatched  his  hat  from 
a  peg  in  the  hall,  and  hurried  out  through  the  dusty 
little  garden  at  the  front  of  the  building,  and  so 
into  the  afternoon  glare  of  the  main  road.  Here 
he  hailed  a  carriage,  and,  telling  the  driver  to  take 
him  to  the  Eastern  Exchange  Telegraph  office,  sat 
back  on  the  jolting  seat,  and  directed  his  eyes  once 
more  to  the  Agony  Column  of  the  newspaper.  The 
incredible  message  read  thus: 

Jamks  Chami'krn'ownf:  Tundrring-Wf.st,  heir  to 
the  late  Stephen  Tundcrin^-West,  of  the  Manor,  Evers- 
field,  Oxon,  is  requested  to  coininunicate  with  Mi"ssrs. 
Browne  &  Beadle,  13SA,  Lincohi's  Inn  Fields,  I^indon. 

His  uncle  was  dead,  then,  and  the  two  sons,  his 
unknown  cousins,  must  have  predeceasci,!  him  or  died 
with  him!  He  had  never  for  one  moment  thought 
of  himself  as  a  possible  heir  to  the  little  property; 


S6  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

and  heaven  knows  how  long  it  might  have  been  be- 
fore he  would  have  had  knowledge  of  his  good  for- 
tune had  he  not  chanced  upon  this  old  newspaper. 

Arrived  at  his  destination,  he  despatched  a  cable- 
gram to  the  solicitors,  notifying  them  that  he  would 
come  to  England  by  the  first  possible  boat.  Then  he 
drove  on  to  Cook's  office  in  the  heart  of  the  city, 
which  he  reached  not  long  before  it  closed;  and  here, 
after  some  anxious  delay,  he  was  told  that  a  berth, 
just  returned  by  its  prospective  occupant,  was  avail- 
able on  a  French  liner  saiTmg  for  Marseilles  that 
night  at  eleven  o'clock.  This  he  secured  without 
hesitation,  and  so  went  galloping  back  towards  the 
hotel  as  the  sun  went  down. 

In  the  open  road,  between  the  city  and  the  hotel 
another  carriage  passed  him  in  which  Monime  was 
sitting,  on  her  way  to  dine  with  some  friends,  of 
whom  she  had  spoken  to  him.  He  waved  to  her, 
and  both  she  and  he  called  their  drivers  to  a  halt. 
Then,  hastening  across  to  her,  he  told  her  excitedly 
that  he  was  sailing  for  England  that  night. 

"You  see,  I've  inherited  some  property,"  he  ex- 
plained.    "I  must  go  and  claim  it  at  once." 

Her  face  was  inscrutable,  but  there  was  no  light 
of  happiness  in  it.  'Tm  sorry  it  has  come  to  an 
end  so  soon,"  she  cried. 

"What?"  he  cried,  and  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  not  listening  to  her.  "You've  been  wonderful 
to  me.  We  mustn't  lose  sight  of  each  other.  This 
thing  has  got  to  go  on  and  on  for  ever." 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying.  An  hour 
ago  she  had  been  almost  the  main  factor  in  his  exis- 
tence. Now  she  was  but  a  fragment  of  a  life  he 
was  setting  behind  him.     It  was  almost  as  though 


BEDOUIN  LOVE  57 

she  were  fading  Into  a  memory  before  his  very  eyes. 
He  was,  as  It  were,  looking  through  her  at  an 
amazing  picture  which  was  unfolding  Itself  beyond. 
The  yellow  walls  of  the  houses,  the  sea,  the  palms, 
the  sunset,  were  dissolving;  and  In  their  stead  he 
was  staring  at  the  green  fields  of  England,  at  the 
timbered  walls  of  an  old  manor-house  last  seen 
when  he  was  a  boy,  at  the  grey  stone  church  amongst 
the  Ilex-trees  and  the  moss-covered  tombstones. 

"I  must  go  on  and  pack  at  once,"  he  said,  stand- 
ing first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other.  "You're 
sure  to  be  back  before  I  leave.  You  can  get  away 
by  ten,  can't  you?" 

He  wrung  her  hand  effusively,  and  hurried  to  his 
carriage,  from  which,  standing  up,  he  waved  his 
hat  wildly  to  her  as  they  drove  off  In  opposite  direc- 
tions. 

But  when  the  clock  struck  ten  there  was  no  sign 
of  Monlme,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  hotel  por- 
ter, who  was  to  accompany  him  to  the  harbour, 
began  to  urge  him  to  delay  his  departure  no  longer. 
Being  somewhat  flurried,  he  thought  to  himself  that 
he  would  write  her  a  farewell  letter  from  the 
steamer,  and  give  It  to  the  porter  to  carry  back 
with  him. 

But  by  the  time  he  had  found  his  cabin  and  seen 
to  his  baggage,  the  siren  was  blowing,  and  the 
porter  in  alarm  was  hurrying  down  the  gangway. 

"I'll  write  or  cable  from  Marseilles,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "I  don't  suppose  she  cares  a  rap  about 
me:  the  whole  thing  was  due  to  our  romantic  sur- 
roundings. But  still  one  would  be  a  fool  to  lose 
sight  of  a  real  woman  like  that  ...  I  wish  I  knew 
her  name." 


Chapter  V:     THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD 

THE  art  of  life  is  very  largely  the  art  of  bury- 
ing bones.  That  is  the  science  of  mental 
economy.  When  a  man  is  confronted  with 
a  problem  which  he  cannot  solve;  when,  so  to  speak, 
Fate  presents  him  with  a  bone  which  he  cannot  crack, 
sometimes,  without  intent,  he  slinks  away  with  it 
and,  like  a  dog,  buries  it,  in  the  undefined  hope  that 
at  a  later  date  he  may  unearth  it  and  find  it  then 
more  manageable. 

Even  so,  during  the  sea  voyage,  Jim  uncon- 
sciously buried  the  bewildering  thought  of  Monime. 
He  was  a  careless  fellow,  very  reprehensible,  hav- 
ing no  actual  harm  in  him,  yet  bearing  a  record 
pock-marked,  so  to  speak,  with  the  sins  of  omis- 
sion. He  was  one  of  the  world's  tramps  by  nature; 
and  now  once  more  he  was  out  upon  the  high  road, 
and  the  lights  of  the  city  wherein  he  had  slept  had 
faded  behind  him  as  he  wandered  onwards  into  an- 
other sunrise.  It  is  true  that  he  wrote  her  a  long 
and  intense  letter  upon  the  day  after  his  departure, 
and  that  he  posted  this  upon  his  arrival  at  Mar- 
seilles; but  his  brain,  by  then  full  of  other  things, 
conjured  up  no  clear  vision  of  her,  and  his  heart 
sent  forth  no  impassioned  message  with  the  writ- 
ten word.  He  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  her,  but 
also  he  had  been  baffled;  and,  as  in  the  case  of  a 
dream,  he  made  no  effort  to  retain  the  sweetness 
of  the  memory. 

58 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD     59 

On  the  morning  of  his  arrival  he  called  at  the 
office  of  the  solicitors  who  had  inserted  the  adver- 
tisement, and  was  not  a  little  startled  to  find  himself 
greeted  with  that  kind  of  obsequiousness  which  he 
had  supposed  to  have  vanished  from  Lincoln's  Inn 
fifty  years  ago. 

The  little  pink-and-white  man  who  was  the  senior 
partner,  and  whose  name  was  Beadle,  rubbed  his 
hands  together  as  though  he  were  washing  them, 
and  actually  walked  backwards  for  some  paces  in 
front  of  his  visitor,  bowing  him  into  a  shabby  leather 
chair  which  stood  beside  the  large,  imposing  desk. 

"I  hope,"  he  crooned,  when  Jim  had  established 
his  identity,  "that  we  may  still  have  the  duty,  and 
pleasure,  of  serving  you,  sir,  as  we  have  served  your 
uncle  and  your  grandfather." 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Jim.  "I  suppose  you  know 
all  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  family  affairs." 

Mr.  Beadle  smilingly  directed  the  young  man's 
attention  to  a  number  of  black  tin  boxes  stacked 
in  the  corner  of  the  room.  "The  Tundering-West 
documents  for  the  last  two  hundred  years,"  he  de- 
clared, blowing  his  breath  through  his  teeth,  an  ac- 
tion which  served  him  for  laughter. 

Jim  had  a  vision  of  legal  formalities  and  law- 
yers' rigmaroles — things  which  he  had  always  de- 
tested; and  the  passing  thought  contributed  to  the 
growing  dislike  he  felt  for  the  harmless,  but  syco- 
phantic, Mr.  Beadle. 

"Well,  first  of  all,"  he  said,  "tell  me  what  my 
inheritance  consists  of,  and  what  sort  of  income 
I've  got." 

Mr.    Beadle    explained    that    the    little    property 


6o  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

comprised  some  two  hundred  acres,  most  of  which 
were  rented;  the  score  of  houses  and  cottages  which 
constituted  the  tiny  little  village;  the  small  but  com- 
fortable manor-house;  and  twenty  thousand  pounds 
of  invested  capital.  This  was  better  than  Jim  had 
expected,  and  his  pleasure  was  manifest  by  the  broad 
smile  upon  his  tanned  face. 

"You  see,  you  will  have  quite  a  comfortable  in- 
come in  a  small  way,"  the  solicitor  told  him.  "I 
do  not  think  that  your  duties  will  embarrass  you. 
You  will  find  your  tenants  very  respectful  and  defer- 
ential country-people,  who  will  give  you  little 
bother;  and  your  obligations  as  landlord  will  be 
very  easily  discharged." 

"They're  a  bit  behind  the  times,  eh?"  suggested 
Jim. 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Beadle,  "I  am  thank- 
ful to  say  that  there  are  still  some  parts  of  the 
English  countryside  where  a  gentleman  may  live  in 
comfort,  and  where  the  people  keep  their  place." 

Jim  was  astonished  by  the  remark,  for  he  had  be- 
lieved such  sentiments  to  be  entombed  in  the  novels 
of  long  ago.  "Poor  old  England!"  he  murmured. 
"We're  a  comic  race,  aren't  w^,  Mr.  Beetle?" 

"  'Beadle,'  "  the  little  old  man  corrected  him;  and 
"Sorry  1"  said  Jim. 

They  spoke  later  of  the  tragedies  which  had  thus 
brought  the  inheritance  out  of  the  direct  line,  and 
hercat  came  the  conventional  sighs  from  Mr. 
Beadle,  as  forced  as  his  laughter.  Jim  was  told 
how  his  cousin,  Mark,  had  died  in  India  of  pneu- 
monia, and  how  his  uncle  and  the  remaining  son, 
James,  having  gone  to  the  Lakes  that  the  old  gentle- 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD     6i 

man  might  recover  his  equanimity,  were  both 
drowned  in  a  sudden  squall  while  sailing  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  from  the  shore.  The  bodies  were 
recovered  and  brought  to  Eversfield  for  burial;  and 
very  solemnly  the  solicitor  produced  a  photograph 
of  the  memorial  tablet  which  had  been  set  up  in  the 
church. 

"Some  day,  I  trust  a  very  long  time  hence,  your 
own  mural  tablet  will  be  set  up  there,"  he  said, 
after  Jim  had  handed  back  the  photograph  in  si- 
lence. "  'Nihil  enim  semper  floret;  atas  succedit 
aetati,'  as  the  good  Cicero  says." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Jim. 

"It  has  all  been  a  terrible  blow  to  me,"  sighed 
Mr.  Beadle.  "The  late  Mr.  Tundering-West 
treated  me  quite  as  a  personal  friend." 

"Did  he  really?"  Jim  was  going  to  be  rude,  but 
checked  himself.  He  felt  an  extraordinary  hostility 
to  this  well-meaning  but  servile  little  personage.  "I 
shall  go  down  there  to-morrow,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  rose  to  take  his  departure,  "and  I'll  probably 
have  the  house  thoroughly  renovated  before  I  go 
into  it." 

"I  don't  think  you  will  find  much  that  requires 
alteration,"  Mr.  Beadle  assured  him,  his  hand 
raised  in  a  gesture  of  deprecation,  "Hasty  changes 
are  always  undesirable;  and,  when  you  have  grown 
into  the  spirit  of  the  place  I  think  you  will  find 
that  you  have  a  duty  to  the  past."  He  checked 
himself,  and  bowed.  "I  trust  you  will  not  mind  an 
old  man  giving  you  that  advice,"  he  murmured,  as 
they  shook  hands.  He  bowed  so  low  that  it  ap- 
peared to  be  a  complete  physical  collapse. 


62  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

On  the  following  day  Jim  motored  to  Eversfield 
in  a  hired  open  car.  He  could  with  greater  ease 
have  gone  by  train  to  Oxford,  and  could  have  driven 
over  in  a  fly;  but  he  wanted  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
spending  some  of  his  new  money,  and,  moreover,  a 
fifty-mile  drive  through  the  fair  lands  of  Berkshire 
and  Oxfordshire  in  the  radiance  of  a  summer's  day 
appealed  to  his  imagination.  Nor  was  he  disap- 
pointed. He  acknowledged  the  beauties  of  the  land 
of  his  birth  with  whole-hearted  pleasure;  and  his 
eyes,  weary  with  long  gazing  upon  leaden  skies  and 
burning  sands,  were  soothed  in  a  manner  beyond 
scope  of  words  by  the  green  fields,  the  soft  foliage 
of  the  trees,  and  grey  skies  of  a  hot,  hazy  morning. 
It  is  true  that  the  roads  were  extremely  dusty,  and 
that  his  face  and  clothes  were  soon  thickly  powdered; 
but,  as  the  chauffeur  had  provided  him  with  a  pair 
of  motoring  glasses,  he  was  not  troubled  in  this  re- 
spect. 

The  little  hamlet  of  Eversfield  lay  seemingly 
asleep  in  its  hollow  amidst  the  richly  timbered  hills, 
as,  at  midday,  he  drove  up  to  the  grey  stone  gates 
of  his  future  home.  Here  was  the  narrow  village 
green  just  as  he  had  last  seen  it  when  he  was  a  boy: 
on  one  side  of  the  lane  which  opened  on  to  it  were 
these  imposing  gates;  on  the  other  side  were  the 
little  church  and  moss-covered  gravestones  leaning 
at  all  angles,  as  though  the  dead  were  whispering 
together  deferentially  at  the  entrance  of  the  manor. 
Upon  the  green  were  the  old  stocks,  and  the  stump 
and  worn  steps  of  the  ancient  cross;  and  behind  them 
stood  the  thatched  cottages  backed  by  the  stately 
elms. 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD     63 

"I  suppose  in  years  to  come,"  he  thought,  "I  shall 
be  walking  through  these  gates  to  the  church  on 
Sundays,  followed  by  the  lady  of  my  choice  and 
half-a-dozen  children;  and  the  villagers  will  nudge 
one  another  and  say  'Here  comes  Squire  and  all  his 
little  squirrels.'  .  .   .  Good  Lord!" 

The  exclamation  was  due  to  the  sudden  feeling 
that  he  had  walked  into  a  trap,  that  he  had  been 
caught  by  immemorial  society,  and  would  soon  be 
forced  to  conform  to  its  ways;  and,  as  the  car  passed 
in  at  the  gates  of  the  manor,  he  had,  for  a  moment, 
a  desire  to  jump  out  and  run  for  his  life. 

A  short,  straight  drive,  flanked  by  clipped  box- 
trees,  led  to  the  main  door  of  the  timbered  Tudor 
house;  and  here  the  new  owner,  dusty,  and  some- 
what untidily  dressed,  was  received  by  the  gardener 
and  his  buxom  wife,  who  had  both  grown  grey  in 
his  uncle's  service.  The  man  held  his  cap  in  his 
hand,  and  touched  his  wrinkled  forehead  with  his 
finger  a  number  of  times,  painfully  anxious  to  find 
favour;  while  his  wife  curtseyed  to  him  at  least 
thrice. 

"Are  you  the  gardener? — what  is  your  name?" 
Jim  asked  briskly,  feeling  almost  as  awkward  as  the 
man  he  addressed,  but  determined  to  go  through  the 
ordeal  with  honour. 

"Peter,  sir,"  said  the  gardener.  "Peter  Long- 
arm,  sir.  I  rec'lect  you,  sir,  when  you  was  no  more'n 
so  'igh,  I  do." 

"Why,  of  course,"  Jim  replied.  "I  remember 
you  now.  You're  the  fellow  who  told  my  uncle  when 
I  broke  the  glass  of  the  forcing  frame." 


64  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

The  old  man  looked  sheepish.  "I  'ad  to  do  my 
dooty,  sir,"  he  said.     "I  ask  your  pardon." 

"Duty,"  Jim  thought  to  himself.  "I'm  beginning 
to  know  that  word.  I  wonder  what  it  really  means." 
He  turned  to  the  woman.  "Now,  please  go  and 
open  the  doors  of  all  the  rooms,  and  then  leave  me 
to  walk  through  the  house  by  myself."  He  wanted 
to  be  alone  to  realize  his  new  possession  and  to 
dream  his  dream  of  future  ease.  Mrs.  Longarm 
eyed  him  nervously  for  a  moment  before  obeying 
his  instructions;  she  told  her  husband  afterwards, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  felt  as  though  she 
were  surrendering  the  house  to  a  cut-throat 
foreigner. 

As  he  wandered,  presently,  from  room  to  room 
he  was  at  first  overpowered  by  the  feeling  that  he 
was  intruding  upon  the  privacy  of  some  sort  of 
family  life  which  he  did  not  understand.  His  uncle's 
wife  had  been  dead  for  three  or  four  years,  but 
there  were  still  many  traces  of  her  influence:  the 
drawing-room,  for  example,  was  furnished  in  a  style 
which  called  to  his  mind  faded  pictures  of  feminine 
tea-parties.  Here  was  the  old  piano  upon  which 
the  good  lady  must  have  tinkled  the  songs  of  which 
the  music  still  lay  in  the  cabinet  near  by — songs  such 
as  My  Mother  Bids  Me  Bind  My  Hair,  and  .-Ih, 
fVelladay  my  Poor  Heart,  And  here  was  the  little 
sewing-table  where  had  doubtless  rested  the  silks 
and  needles  for  her  embroidery.  Perhaps  it  was  she 
who  had  chosen  the  gilt-framed  engravings  upon 
the  walls — the  depressed  picture  of  "Hagar  and 
Ishmael  in  the  Wilderness;"  a  youthful  portrait  of 
Alexandra,    Princess    of    Wales;    "Jacob    weeping 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD     65 

over  Joseph's  coat;"  the  sprightly  "Hawking 
Part}',"  and  so  forth. 

Looking  around,  he  experienced  a  sensation  of 
mingled  mirth  and  awe,  and  he  hoped  that  the 
ghost  of  his  aunt  would  not  haunt  him  when  he 
laid  sacrilegious  and  violent  hands  upon  these 
things,  as  at  first  he  intended  to  do.  The  chintzes 
appeared  to  be  of  more  recent  date;  but  these,  too, 
would  have  to  go,  for,  as  a  pattern,  he  detested 
sprays  of  red  roses  tied  with  blue  ribbons. 

The  dining-room,  hall  and  staircase,  being 
panelled  and  hung  with  family  portraits,  were  im- 
pressive in  their  conveyance  of  a  sense  of  many  gen- 
erations; and  the  hereditary  library,  if  sombre,  was 
interesting.  Jim  was  very  fond  of  old  books,  and  he 
stood  there  for  some  time  taking  the  calf-bound 
volumes  from  the  shelves,  and  turning  over  the 
ancient  pages.  But,  the  morning-room,  with  its  red- 
covered  chairs,  its  mahogany  sideboard,  and  its 
sham  Chinese  vases,  was  distressing.  Yet  here,  as 
in  the  drawing-room,  there  was  a  chaste  and  awful 
solemnity,  from  which  he  shrank,  as  a  conscientious 
Don  Juan  might  shrink  at  a  lady's  pric-Dicu. 

The  larger  bedrooms  upstairs,  with  their 
mahogany  wardrobes  and  heavy  chests  of  drawers 
full  of  clothes,  and  cupboards  full  of  boots  and  hats, 
were  startling  in  their  association  with  their  late 
tenants.  On  a  table  beside  his  uncle's  bed  there  lay 
a  recent  novel,  which  Jim  himself  had  also  just  read: 
it  constituted  a  gruesome  link  between  the  living  and 
the  dead.  He  glanced  about  him  and  through  the 
window,  down  the  drive,  almost  expecting  to  sec 
the  apparitions  of  his  relatives  stalking  up  from  the 


66  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

family  vault  in  the  churchyard  to  see  what  he  was 
about.  His  uncle  would  probably  think  him  a  dread- 
ful scallawag,  for  the  old  gentleman  had  been  an  ac- 
credited pillar  of  Church  and  State,  with,  so  the  cup- 
boards testified,  a  mania  for  collecting  the  top  hats 
he  had  worn  on  Sundays  or  when  in  town.  He  had 
been  a  model  of  propriety,  and  the  monumental 
stone,  the  photograph  of  which  he  had  seen  at  the 
solicitors,  stated  that  he  had  "nobly  upheld  the  tra- 
ditions of  his  race." 

Jim  felt  depressed,  and  presently  went  out  into 
the  garden  which  was  ablaze  with  flowers;  and  here, 
after  a  late  meal  of  sandwiches,  eaten  upon  an  orna- 
mental stone  bench,  his  spirits  revived,  for  the 
manor  and  its  setting  formed  a  very  beautiful  pic- 
ture. If  only  he  could  get  rid  of  all  those  hats  and 
clothes  and  old  photographs! 

A  sudden  idea  occurred  to  him:  he  would  go  and 
find  the  padre,  and  tell  him  to  take  these  things 
for  the  poor  of  the  parish.  They  must  be  got  rid 
of  at  once,  even  though  every  man  in  the  village  be 
obliged  to  wear  a  top  hat.  They  must  all  be  gone 
before  he  came  here  again,  or  he  would  never  bring 
himself  to  live  in  the  house  at  all  I  He  hurried  down 
the  drive,  asked  Peter  Longarm  at  the  lodge  to 
point  out  the  vicarage  to  him,  and  thereafter  has- 
tened on  his  errand. 

Near  the  church,  however,  and  at  a  point  where 
a  gap  in  the  trees  revealed  a  distant  view  of  the 
dreaming,  huddled  spires  of  Oxford,  flanked  by  the 
lonely  tower  of  Magdalen  College,  he  met  with  a 
white-bearded  clergyman  whom  he  presumed  to  be 
the  vicar,  and  at  once  accosted  him. 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD     67 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  ingratiatingly,  barring  his 
way.  "Would  you  care  to  have  some  old  hats? — I 
mean  of  course,  would  your  flock,  like  to  wear  them? 
— Top  hats,  you  know,  and  old  boots,  too,  if  you 
want  them." 

The  elderly  gentleman  was  annoyed,  and,  with  a 
curt  "No  thank  you,  not  to-day,"  proceeded  on  his 
way.  Jim,  however,  called  after  him,  coaxingly: 
"They  are  quite  good  hats  really;  they  only  want 
brushing." 

At  this  the  man  of  God  stopped  and  turned, 
looking  at  Jim's  somewhat  dusty  figure  with  wonder- 
ment. "Do  I  understand  that  you  are  selling  old 
hats?"  he  asked,  endeavouring  to  speak  politely. 

Jim  rushed  feverishly  into  explanation.  "No,  I 
want  to  get. rid  of  them,"  he  gabbled;  "I  want  to  get 
rid  of  all  sorts  of  things — hats,  coats,  trousers, 
dressing-gowns,  shirts,  vests,  boots,  slippers,  old 
photographs,  umbrellas  .  .  ."  He  paused  for 
breath,  inwardly  laughing. 

Very  slowly  and  deliberately  the  clergyman  ad- 
justed his  eyeglasses  low  down  upon  his  nose,  and 
stared  at  Jim.  "Young  man,"  he  said,  "is  this  a 
jest  at  my  expense?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  Jim  answered.  "I'm  in  deadly 
earnest.  I  can't  possibly  live  in  the  house  with  all 
these  things.  You  zuill  help  mc,  won't  you?  How 
would  it  be  if  you  came  over  to-morrow  and  cleared 
them  all  out,  and  then  had  a  meeting  or  something, 
and  gave  them  as  prizes  to  the  regular  church- 
goers?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  arc  talking  about,"  the 


68  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

clergyman  responded,  gently  but  firmly  pushing  him 
aside.    "Good-day  !'^ 

Jim  stared  at  him  as  he  walked  off.  "You  are  the 
vicar,  aren't  you?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  the  other  replied  somewhat 
sharply,  over  his  shoulder;  "I'm  the  President  of 
Magdalen." 

Jim  uttered  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  and 
hastened  on  to  the  vicarage. 

The  servant  who  appeared  in  response  to  his 
knock,  was  about  to  ask  him  his  name,  when  the 
vicar,  an  old  man  with  a  clean-shaven,  kindly  face, 
and  grey  hair,  happened  to  cross  the  hall. 

"Yes,  what  is  it,  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  coming 
to  the  door,  while  the  maid  retired. 

"Are  you  the  vicar?"  Jim  asked,  beginning  more 
cautiously. 

"I  am,"  the  other  responded. 

"You  really  are?  Well  I  want  to  ask  you  about 
some  old  clothes.    I   .   .   ." 

The  vicar  held  up  his  hand.  "No,  I  have  none 
to  sell  you,"  he  said  smiling  sadly.  "I  wear  mine 
out." 

Jim  laughed  aloud.  "First  I'm  thought  to  be 
selling  them,  and  now  you  think  I'm  buying  them," 
he  exclaimed.  "We  certainly  are  a  nation  of  shop- 
keepers." 

The  vicar  was  puzzled.  "I  don't  understand. 
What  is  it  you  want?" 

"I  have  a  lot  of  hats  and  old  clothes  I  want  to 
get  rid  of.     I  thought  you  might  like  them." 

The  clergyman  bowed  stiffly.  "It  is  very  kind  of 
you,"  he  said  frigidly.     "My  stipend,   I   admit,  is 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD     69 

small,  but  I  am  not  yet  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
wearing  a  stranger's  cast-off  clothing." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Jim  hastily  explained. 
"And  they're  not  mine :  they  belonged  to  my  late 
relatives.  I  am  just  coming  to  live  at  the  manor, 
and  I  thought  the  poor  of  the  parish  would  .   .   ." 

The  vicar  interrupted  him.  "I  beg  your  pardon. 
Are  you  .  .   .?"     He  hesitated,  incredulous. 

"Yes,  I'm  the  new  Tundering-West,"  Jim  told 
him. 

The  other  held  out  his  hands.  "Well,  well!" 
he  cried.  "And  I  thought  you  were  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated. 

"The  old  clothes  man,"  laughed  Jim. 

"Oh,  very  droll!"  the  vicar  smiled,  shaking  him 
warmly  by  the  hand.  "How  ridiculous  of  me !  Do 
come  in,  my  dear  sir!" 

Jim  followed  him  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
here  he  found  a  little  old  lady,  who  was  introduced 
to  him  as  Miss  Proudfoote,  and  a  florid,  middle- 
aged  man  with  a  waxed  moustache,  who  looked  like 
a  sergeant-major,  and  proved  to  be  Dr.  Spooner, 
the  local  medical  man.  They  had  evidently  been 
lunching  at  the  vicarage,  and  were  now  drinking  the 
post-prandial  concoction  which  the  English  believe 
to  be  coffee.  They  both  greeted  him  with  a  sort  of 
deference,  which  however,  did  not  conceal  their 
curiosity. 

During  the  next  ten  minutes  Jim  heard  a  great 
deal  of  his  "poor  dear  uncle"  and  his  unfortunate 
cousins.  The  tragedy  of  their  deaths,  it  seemed, 
had  cast  the  profoundest  gloom  over  the  village; 
but  it  was  a  case  of  "the  King  is  dead;  long  live 


70  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

the  King!"  and  all  three  of  his  new  acquaintances 
appeared  to  be  anxious  to  pay  him  every  respect. 

Dr.  Spooner  asked  him  from  what  part  of  Eng- 
land he  had  just  come,  and  the  news  that  he  had 
been  living  abroad  and  had  not  visited  the  land  of 
his  birth  for  many  years  caused  a  sensation.  The 
thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  not  to  men- 
tion Eg)'pt,  or  any  other  land  which  had  recently 
known  him  as  Jim  Easton;  for  any  such  revelations 
might  bring  discredit  upon  him,  and  he  wished  to 
start  his  life  at  Eversfield  without  any  handicap. 
He  therefore  spoke  only  of  California,  referring  to 
it  casually  as  a  country  where  he  had  resided. 

Miss  Proudfoote  turned  to  the  vicar.  "Is  it  not 
extraordinary,"  she  said,  "how  many  of  our  young 
men  shoulder  what  Mr.  Kipling  calls  'the  white 
man's  burden'  and  go  forth  to  live  amongst  the 
heathen?"  Her  geography  was  evidently  at  fault, 
but  out  of  consideration  for  her  years  and  her  sex, 
no  correction  was  forthcoming.  "I  suppose,"  she 
proceeded,  "you  met  with  our  missionaries  out  there? 
It  is  wonderful  what  a  great  work  the  Church  Mis- 
sionary Society  Is  doing  all  over  the  world." 

The  Doctor  here  had  the  hardihood  to  inter- 
pose. "Oh,  but  California  Is  a  part  of  the  United 
States  of  America  .  .  ."  he  ventured. 

"How  foolish  of  mel — of  course,"  smiled  the 
old  lady.  "The  Americans  are  quite  an  educated 
people.  I  met  an  American  traveller  once  in  Ox- 
ford: a  pleasant  spoken  young  man  he  seemed,  so 
far  as  I  could  understand  what  he  said." 

"Yes,"    remarked    the    vicar,    "America    can    no 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  EVERSFIELD     71 

longer  be  called  'the  common  sewer  of  England,' 
as  It  was  when  I  was  a  boy." 

Jim  stared  from  one  to  the  other  in  amazement. 
"But  America  is  the  largest  and  most  progressive 
part  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,"  he  protested.  "They 
are  already  ahead  of  us  in  many  ways." 

Miss  Proudfoote  was  shocked,  and  she  showed 
it.  "It  is  evident  that  you  do  not  know  England," 
she  replied,  coldly. 

"I  mean,"  he  emphasized,  "it  always  seems  to 
me  a  fine  thought  that  England  can  never  die,  be- 
cause she  will  live  again  over  there;  and  then  she'll 
have  another  lease  of  life  in  Australia;  and  so  on. 
This  England  here  may  die,  but  the  English  will  go 
on  for  ever  and  ever,  It  seems  to  me.  And  wherever 
their  home  may  be,"  he  added,  laughing,  "they'll  al- 
ways think  it  'God's  own  country,'  and  think  them- 
selves the  chosen  people." 

Miss  Proudfoote  looked  anxiously  at  him,  hoping 
that  there  was  some  good  in  him.  "I  trust,"  she 
said,  "that  it  is  now  your  intention  to  settle  down?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  fancy  my  wanderings  are 
over." 

"Heaven  has  placed  you  in  a  very  responsible 
position,"  she  said,  gazing  earnestly  at  him.  "I  am 
sure  our  best  wishes  will  be  with  you  in  your  duties." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  sighed  the  vicar,  whose  name,  as 
Jim  had  just  ascertained,  was  Glenning.  "Are  you  a 
married  man,  may  I  ask?" 

"Oh  no,"  Jim  replied. 

Miss  Proudfoote  patted  his  arm.  "\Vc  siiall  have 
to  find  you  a  wife,"  she  smiled. 


72  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Jim  was  aghast,  and  hastily  changed  the  subject. 
"Now  about  the  old  clothes,"  he  began. 

Mr.  Glenning  coloured,  slightly.  "What  an  ab- 
surd error  for  me  to  have  made,"  he  said.  "Now, 
tell  me,  what  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

"I'm  going  back  to  London  to-day,"  Jim  ex- 
plained, "and  I  want  you,  while  I  am  away,  to 
go  through  all  my  uncle's  things,  and  give  away  to 
the  poor  everything  you  think  I  shall  not  want. 
Just  use  your  own  judgment." 

"It  will  be  a  melancholy  duty,"  he  replied. 

"I'm  sure  it  will,"  the  new  Squire  answered,  "but, 
I  tell  you  frankly,  anything  useless  I  find  here  when 
I  return  I  shall  burn." 

The  vicar  raised  his  hands;  the  doctor  sniffed;  and 
Miss  Proudfoote  looked  at  the  stranger  indignantly. 

"That  is  rather  hasty,  is  it  not?"  she  asked, 
tremulously. 

Jim  felt  awkward.  He  had  made  a  bad  impres- 
sion, and  he  knew  it.  "You  see,"  he  tried  to  ex- 
plain, "my  uncle  died  so  suddenly  and  the  place 
is  littered  with  his  things.  All  I  want  to  keep  is  the 
furniture,  and  the  silver,  and  the  books,  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  I  will  see  to  that  myself." 

Miss  Proudfoote  turned  away  suddenly  and  Jim, 
to  his  horror,  saw  her  raise  a  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes.  He  could  have  kicked  himself.  He  wished 
the  floor  would  open  and  engulf  him.  He  looked 
in  despair  at  the  two  men. 

"You  know  I  haven't  seen  my  uncle  since  I  was  a 
boy,'^  he  stammered.     "I  am  a  complete  stranger." 

"He  was  our  very  dear  friend,"  said  Mr.  Glen- 
ning. 


Chapter  VI:    SETTLING  DOWN 

WHILE  the  congregation  in  the  little  church 
at  Eversfield  was  singing  the  last  hymn 
of  the  morning  service  the  October  sun 
passed  from  behind  an  extensive  bank  of  cloud,  and 
its  rays  shot  down  through  the  plain  glass  window 
upon  the  figure  of  a  young  woman,  whose  sudden 
and  surprising  illumination  instantly  attracted  many 
pairs  of  eyes  to  her.  She  looked,  and  knew  it,  like 
a  little  angel  as  she  stood  in  this  shaft  of  brilliance, 
hymn-book  in  hand,  singing  the  well-known  words 
in  a  voice  which  enhanced  their  ancient  sweetness; 
and  the  vicar,  from  his  place  at  the  side  of  the  small 
chancel,  fixed  his  gaze  upon  her  with  an  expression 
of  such  saintly  beatitude  upon  his  face  as  to  be  al- 
most idiotic. 

Her  name  was  Dorothy  Darling;  but  her  mother, 
who  here  stood  beside  her  in  the  shadow  under  the 
wall,  called  her  Dolly,  and  rightly  congratulated 
herself  upon  having  chosen  for  her  only  baby, 
twenty-three  years  ago,  a  name  of  which  the  diminu- 
tive was  so  appropriate  to  the  now  grown  woman. 

In  the  sunshine  the  girl's  soft,  fair  hair  looked 
like  a  puff  of  gold,  and  her  skin  like  coral;  and  the 
play  of  light  and  shade  accentuated  the  pretty  lines 
of  her  figure,  so  that  they  were  by  no  means  lost 
under  the  folds  of  her  smart  little  frock.  1  Icr 
large,  soft  eyes  were  as  innocent  as  they  were  blue, 

73 


74  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

and  never  a  glance  betrayed  the  fact  that  she  was 
singing  for  the  direct  benefit  of  the  new  Squire, 
whose  head  and  shoulders  appeared  above  the 
carved  wooden  walls  of  the  sort  of  loose-box  which 
was  his  family  pew. 

The  miniature  church,  though  dating  from  the 
twelfth  centur)',  still  retained  the  features  by  which 
it  had  been  transformed  and  modernized  in  the  ob- 
sequious days  of  Walpole  and  the  first  of  the 
Georges.  The  pews  for  the  "gentry"  were  boxed 
in,  and  each  was  fitted  with  its  door;  but  the  walls 
of  Jim's  pew  were  higher  than  the  others  and  its 
area  bigger.  At  the  back  of  the  church  there  were 
the  open  seats  for  the  villagers  and  persons  of  vul- 
gar birth;  but  the  woodwork  here  was  not  carved, 
save  with  the  occasional  initials  of  lads  long  since 
passed  out  of  memory. 

At  the  sides  of  the  chancel  were  set  the  mural 
tablets  which  recorded  the  genealogical  lustres  of 
dead  Tundering-Wests,  back  to  the  day  when  a  cer- 
tain Captain  of  Horse  had  obtained  a  grant  of  the 
manor  from  the  Commonwealth,  in  lieu  of  his  devas- 
tated estate  in  Devon,  and,  with  admirable  tact,  had 
married  the  daughter  of  the  exiled  Royalist  owner. 
Around  the  whitewashed  walls  of  the  small  nave 
large  wooden  boards  were  hung,  upon  which  were 
painted  the  arms  and  quarterings  of  the  successive 
Squires  and  their  spouses;  and  above  the  chancel 
arch  the  royal  Georgian  escutcheon  was  displayed  in 
still  vivid  colours. 

The  church,  indeed,  was  a  tiny  monument  to  all 
that  glory  of  caste  which  its  DivMne  Founder  ab- 
horred,  and  which  the   aforesaid   Roundhead,  mis- 


SETTLING  DOWN  75 

apprehending  the  unalterable  character  of  his  fel- 
low-countrymen, had  apparently  fought  in  his  own 
day  to  suppress. 

When  the  hymn  was  finished,  the  blessing  spoken, 
and  Mr.  Glenning  gone  into  the  vestry  behind  the 
organ,  this  traditional  distinction  between  the  classes 
was  emphasized  by  the  behaviour  of  the  little  con- 
gregation. Nobody  of  the  meaner  sort  moved  to- 
wards the  sunlit  doorway  until  Jim,  looking  extraor- 
dinarily embarrassed,  had  marched  down  the  aisle 
and  had  passed  out  into  the  autumnal  scurry  of  fall- 
ing leaves,  followed  closely  by  Mrs.  and  Miss  Darl- 
ing, Mr.  Merrivall  of  Rose  Cottage,  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Spooner,  and  old  Miss  Proudfoote  of  the  Grange; 
and,  when  these  were  gone,  way  had  still  to  be  made 
for  young  Farmer  Hopkins  and  his  wife,  Farmer 
Cartwright  and  his  idiot  son,  and  the  other  families 
of  local  standing. 

Outside,  in  the  keen  October  air,  Jim  paused  un- 
der the  ancient  ilex-tree,  and  turned  to  bid  good- 
morning  to  the  Darlings.  Dolly  had  interested  and 
attracted  him  during  these  three  months  since  he 
took  up  his  residence  at  the  manor;  but  he  had  been 
so  much  occupied  in  settling  himself  into  his  new 
home  that  he  had  not  given  her  all  the  attention  he 
felt  was  her  due,  now  that  the  shaft  of  sunlight 
in  the  church  had  revealed  her  to  him  in  the  pal- 
pable charm  of  her  maidenhood. 

He  greeted  her,  therefore,  with  cheery  ardour,  as 
though  she  were  a  new  discovery,  and  walked  beside 
her  and  her  mother  down  the  path  which  wound 
between  the  moss-covercil  gravestones,  and  out  into 
the  lane  under  the  rustling  elms.     A  great  change 


76  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

had  come  over  him  since  he  had  returned  to  Eng- 
land: he  had  become  in  some  ways  more  normal,  and 
the  quiet,  simple  life  of  an  English  village  had,  as 
it  were,  taken  much  of  the  exotic  colour  out  of  his 
thoughts.  In  the  romantic  East  he  had  looked  for 
romance,  but  here  in  the  domestic  West  his  mind 
had  turned  towards  domesticity'.  His  poetic  imagi- 
nation was  temporarily  blunted;  and  whereas  in 
Alexandria  he  had  responded  eagerly  to  the  enchant- 
ments of  hour  and  place,  in  Eversfield  he  was  readily 
satisfied  with  a  more  rational  aspect  of  life. 

He  turned  to  the  mother.  "What  a  little  picture 
your  daughter  looked,  singing  that  hymn  in  the  sun- 
light," he  remarked,  with  enthusiasm. 

Mrs.  Darling  sighed.  Twenty  years  ago  she, 
too,  had  been  a  little  picture;  but,  so  she  thought 
to  herself,  she  had  had  more  character  in  her  face 
than  Dolly,  and  less  softness.  Outwardly  her  little 
girl  took  after  that  scamp  of  a  father  of  hers,  whose 
innocent  blue  eyes  and  boyish  face  had  won  him 
more  frequent  successes  than  his  continence  could 
handle. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  evasively,  "that  is  Dolly's 
favourite  hymn.   .   .   .   She  has  a  nice  little  voice." 

"Delightful!"  said  Jim.  "I  didn't  know  hymns 
could  sound  so  beautiful!" 

Dolly  looked  at  him  as  our  great-grandmothers 
must  have  looked  when  they  said,  "Fie!" 

"Aren't  you  a  regular  church-goer?"  she  asked, 
gazing  up  at  him  with  childlike  eyes. 

"Can't  say  I  am,"  he  answered,  with  a  quick 
laugh.  "I'm  new  to  all  this,  you  know.  I've 
knocked  about  all  over  the  world  since  I  left  school. 


SETTLING  DOWN  77 

But,  I  say! — that  family  pew,  and  the  respectful 
villagers! — they  give  me  the  hump!" 

"Oh,  I  think  it  is  charming,  perfectly  charming," 
said  Mrs.  Darling. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  expect  I'll  get  used  to  it. 
I  suppose  this  sort  of  life  grows  on  one:  in  some 
ways  I'm  beginning  to  have  a  sort  of  settled  feeling 
already." 

They  were  walking  away  from  the  gates  of  the 
Manor,  which  rose  opposite  the  ivy-covered  church, 
and  were  approaching  the  picturesque  little  cottage 
where  the  Darlings  lived.  Jim  paused,  and  as  he 
did  so  Dolly  experienced  a  sudden  sense  of  disap- 
pointment. She  had  hoped  that  he  would  accom- 
pany them  to  their  door,  and  she  had  intended  then 
to  entice  him  through  it,  and  to  show  him  over  their 
pretty  rooms  and  round  the  flower-garden  and  the 
orchard.  Until  now  they  had  only  occasionally  met, 
and  their  exchanges  of  conversational  trivialities 
had  been  carried  on  In  the  lane,  or  at  the  door  of 
the  church,  or  outside  the  cottage  which  served  as 
the  post-office.  He  seemed  to  be  a  difficult  man  to 
take  hold  of;  and  during  the  last  few  weeks,  since 
her  mind  had  begun  to  be  so  disastrously  full  of  the 
thought  of  him,  she  had  felt  ridiculously  frustrated 
in  her  attempts  to  develop  their  friendship.  Frus- 
tration, of  course,  is  woman's  destiny,  which  meets 
her  at  every  turn;  but  in  youth  it  sometimes  serves 
as  her  incentive. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  see  our  little  home?" 
she  asked.     "It's  rather  a  treasure." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't,"  he  re- 
plied.    "I  promised  to  go  round  my  place  with  the 


78  Bl'.DOUIN   LOVE 

gardener  this  morning.  He'll  be  waiting  for  me 
now.  But,  I  say,  what  about  dinner  to-night? 
Won't  you  both  dine  with  me?"  He  was  feeling 
reckless. 

Dolly's  heart  leapt,  and,  in  a  flash,  she  had  se- 
lected the  dress  she  would  put  on,  and  had  consid- 
ered whether  she  should  wear  the  little  diamond 
pendant  or  the  sham  pearls. 

"We  shall  be  delighted,"  murmured  Mrs.  Dar- 
ling.    "Eh,  Dolly?" 

The  girl  looked  doubtful.  "I  don't  know  that 
we  ought  to  to-night,"  she  answered.  "We  had 
half  promised  to  drive  over  to  a  sort  of  sacred 
concert  affair  in  Oxford." 

"Oh,  don't  disappoint  me,"  said  Jim.  "I've  got 
the  house  almost  shipshape  now;  I'd  like  you  to 
see  it." 

Dolly  did  not  require  really  to  be  pressed;  and 
soon  the  young  man  was  striding  homewards  down 
the  lane,  wondering  why  it  had  taken  him  three 
months  to  realize  that  this  girl  was  perfectly  ador- 
able; while  she,  on  her  part,  was  pinching  Mrs. 
Darling's  arm  and  saying:  "Oh,  mother  dear, 
doesn't  he  look  delightfully  wicked!" 

"Yes,  he  seems  a  nice,  sardonic  fellow,"  her 
mother  remarked  grimly,  as  they  entered  their 
house.  "Why  did  you  begin  by  saying  we  were 
engaged  to-night?     It's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it." 

Dolly  smiled.  "Oh,  I  made  that  up,  because  I 
thought  you  were  too  prompt  in  accepting.  He'll 
want  us  all  the  more  if  we  are  stand-offish.  Men 
are  like  that." 

Mrs.   Darling  sniffed.     She  was   a  lazy,   plump, 


SETTLING  DOWN  79 

and  rather  languid  little  woman;  and  sometimes  she 
grew  impatient  at  her  daughter's  ingenious  method 
of  dealing  with  these  sorts  of  situations.  She  her- 
self had  grown  more  direct  in  her  Yea  and  Nay: 
perhaps  at  the  age  of  forty-five  she  was  a  little  tired 
of  dissimulation.  The  world  had  treated  her 
scurvily;  and,  having  a  settled  grievance,  she  was 
inclined  now  to  take  whatever  pleasant  things  were 
to  be  had  for  the  asking,  without  any  subtle  manceu- 
vering  for  position. 

Her  husband  had  left  her  when  Dolly  was  five 
years  old,  and,  so  far  as  she  knew,  he  was  now  dead. 
For  several  years  she  had  bravely  maintained  her- 
self in  a  tiny  Kensington  flat  by  writing  social  and 
theatrical  articles  for  pretentious  papers.  She  had 
been  a  purveyor  of  gossip,  a  tattle-monger,  a  dealer 
in  bibble-babble ;  and  she  had  carried  on  her  trade 
with  an  increasing  inclination  to  yawn  over  it,  and  a 
growing  consciousness  of  her  daughter's  contempt, 
until  the  editors  who  had  supported  her  became 
aware  that  her  heart  was  not  in  her  work,  and  five 
years  ago  gave  her  her  conge. 

Then,  with  a  temporary  display  of  energy,  she 
had  followed  Dolly's  cultured  advice,  and  had  es- 
tablished a  little  business  off  Sloane  Square,  which 
she  called  "The  Purple  Shoj)."  Here  she  sold  pur- 
ple cushions  and  lamp-shades,  poppy-heads  dipped  in 
purple  paint,  poetry-books  in  purple  covers,  sketches 
by  Bakst  in  purple  frames,  lengths  of  purple  damask, 
and  so  forth.  But  purple  went  out  of  fashion,  and 
her  once  very  considerable  profits  sank  to  the  vanish- 
ing point.  She  introduced  other  colours,  and 
softer  shades  of  mauve  and  lilac.     She  sold  a  doll 


8o  RKDOUIN   LOVE 

which  had  mauve  hair  and  naughty  black  eyes;  she 
took  in  a  stock  of  bottled  new  potatoes  tinged  with 
a  harmless  purple  liquid,  and  presented  them  to  the 
jaded  world  of  fashion  as  Pommcs  dc  terre  pourprcs 
de  Tyr ;  she  even  sold  brilliant  bath-robes  for  bored 
bachelors,  with  coloured  soap  to  match. 

A  financial  crash  followed,  and,  after  a  few 
months  spent  in  dodging  her  creditors,  she  heard  of 
this  little  cottage  at  Eversfield,  and  fled  to  it  with 
her  daughter,  leaving  no  address.  She  was  in  re- 
ceipt of  a  small  annual  allowance  from  the  estate  of 
a  deceased  brother,  and  this  she  supplemented  by 
writing  the  monthly  fashion  article  in  one  of  the 
journals  devoted  to  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil. 
She  wrote  under  the  nom-de-plume  of  "Countess 
X" ;  and  her  material  was  obtained  by  a  monthly 
visit  to  London  and  a  tour  of  the  leading  modistes. 

For  eighteen  months  now  she  had  lain  low  in  this 
nook  of  the  Midlands  where  Time  stood  still,  and 
gradually  she  had  ceased  to  dread  the  visit  of  the 
postman,  and  had  begun  to  take  a  languid  interest 
in  the  cottage.  The  colour  purple  no  longer  set  her 
fat  knees  knocking  together,  and  lately  she  had 
been  able  even  to  look  up  some  of  her  old  friends 
in  London  and  to  greet  them  with  the  sad,  brave 
smile  of  a  wronged  woman. 

To  Dolly,  however,  the  enforced  seclusion  had 
been  a  sore  trial,  and  there  were  times  when  her 
pretty  eyes  were  red  with  weeping.  She  had  been 
utterly  bored  by  the  purposeless  existence  she  was 
called  upon  to  lead;  but  now  the  arrival  of  the  new 
Squire  at  the  manor,  which  had  hardly  seen  its 
previous   owner   during   the   last  year   of   his   life> 


SETTLING  DOWN  8i 

had  aroused  her  from  her  sorrows  and  had  set 
her  heart  in  a  flutter.  She  liked  his  strange, 
swarthy  face  and  his  moody  eyes,  and  thought  he 
looked  artistic  and  even  intellectual;  and  she  liked 
his  obvious  embarrassment  at  the  deference  paid 
to  him  in  this  little  kingdom  which  he  had  in- 
herited. 

She  spent  the  afternoon,  therefore.  In  a  condition 
of  pleasurable  excitement,  stitching  at  the  dress 
she  was  going  to  wear  and  making  certain  altera- 
tions to  the  shape  of  the  neck. 

While  she  plied  her  needle,  Mrs.  Darling  sat  at 
the  low  window  overlooking  the  orchard,  and 
scribbled  her  monthly  article  upon  a  writing-pad 
resting  on  her  knee.  "Here  is  a  charming  little 
conceit  I  chanced  upon  in  Bond  Street  t'other  day," 
she  wrote.  "It  is  really  a  tub-time  frock;  but  its 
success  in  the  drawing-room  is  likely  to  be  im- 
mediate. Organdy  ruchings  of  moonlight  blue,  and 
a  soup(^on  of  jet  cabochons  on  the  corsage.  It  is 
named  'Hopes  in  turmoil.'  "  And  again,  "I  noticed, 
too,  a  crisp  little  trotteur  frock,  with  a  nipped-in 
waist-line  hesitating  behind  a  moycnagc  girdle  of 
beige  velours  delaine.  They  have  called  it  'Cupid's 
Teeth.'    Oh,  very  snappy,  I  asssure  you,  my  dears!" 

She  smiled  lazily  as  she  wrote,  but  once  she  sighed 
so  heavily  that  her  daughter  asked  her  if  anything 
were  amiss. 

"No,"  she  replied.  "I  was  only  just  wondering 
whether  anybody  in  their  senses  could  understand 
the  nonsense  I  am  writing.  The  editor's  orders 
are  to  make  the  thing  sound  French:  I  should  lose 
my  job  if  I  wrote  in  plain  English." 


82  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

"Oh  dear,"  sighed  Dolly,  "how  tedious  all  that 
sort  of  thing  seems!  I  wonder  that  you  can  bother 
with  it." 

"I've  got  to,"  her  mother  answered,  with  irrita- 
tion. "I  shan't  be  able  to  give  it  up  till  you  are 
married  and  off  my  hands." 

"Yes,  so  you  are  always  telling  me,"  said  Dolly; 
and   therewith  their  silence  was   renewed. 

Night  had  fallen  when  they  set  out  for  the  manor, 
and  the  lane  was  intensely  dark.  They  were  guided, 
however,  by  the  light  in  the  window  of  the  lodge 
at  the  gates;  and  from  here  to  their  destination 
they  were  accompanied  by  the  gardener,  who  carried 
a  lantern  which  flung  their  shadows,  like  great 
black  monsters,  across  the  high  box-hedges  flanking 
the  main  approach.  From  the  outside  the  timbered 
house  looked  ghostly  and  forbidding;  and  by  con- 
trast, the  front  hall  which  they  entered  seemed 
wonderfully  well-lit,  though  only  lamps  and  candles 
and  the  flames  of  the  log-fire  served  for  illumination. 

Here  Jim  came  to  them  as  they  were  removing 
their  wraps,  and  Dolly  could  see  by  the  expression 
on  his  face  that  her  dress  had  his  hearty  approval. 
He  led  them  into  the  library,  where  his  late  uncle's 
books,  arranged  upon  the  high  shelves,  and  the 
rather  heavy  furniture,  presented  a  picture  of  solid 
dignity;  and  presently  they  were  ushered  into  the 
panelled  dining-room,  where  they  sat  down  at  a 
warmly  lit  table,  under  the  silent  scrutiny  of  a 
gallery  of  dead  Tundering-Wests  and  that  of  a 
gaping  village  housemaid  who  appeared  to  be  more 
or  less  moribund. 

The  food  provided  by  Jim's  thoroughly  incom- 


SETTLING  DOWN  83 

petent  cook  was  not  a  success,  and  when  some  rather 
tough  mutton  chops  had  followed  a  dish  of  under- 
boiled  cod,  which  had  been  preceded  by  a  huge 
silver  tureen  of  lukewarm  soup,  their  host  felt  that 
some  words  of  apology  were  due  to  his  guests. 

"You  must  try  to  bear  with  the  menu,"  he 
laughed.  "This  is  my  cook's  first  situation.  She 
was  recommended  to  me  by  Mr.  Glenning,  the  vicar, 
as  a  girl  who  was  willing  to  learn;  but  it  only  oc- 
curred to  me  afterwards  that  that  was  not  much 
good  when  there  was  nobody  to  teach  her." 

"You  must  let  me  give  her  a  few  lessons,"  said 
Dolly,  at  which  her  mother  stared  in  astonishment, 
knowing  that  her  daughter  understood  about  as 
much  of  cooking  as  a  dumb-waiter. 

Yet  the  girl  was  not  conscious  of  deception,  nor 
was  she  aware  that  she  was  acting  a  part,  and  act- 
ing it  mainly  for  her  own  edification.  She  pictured 
herself  just  now  as  a  splendid  little  house-wife,  and 
she  would  have  been  gravely  insulted  if  her  mother 
had  told  her  that  her  dream  was  devoid  of  reality. 
In  her  mind  she  saw  herself  as  the  lady  of  the  manor, 
quietly,  unobtrusively,  yet  all-wiscly,  directing  its 
affairs;  a  sweet  smiling  Bunty  pulling  the  strings; 
a  little  ray  of  sunshine  in  the  great,  grey  old  house; 
a  source  of  comfort  to  her  lord  which  he  would  not 
appreciate  until  she  should  go  away  to  stay  with  her 
mother,  whereon  he  would  write  to  her  telling  her 
that  since  her  departure  ever>'thing  had  gone  wrong. 

Throughout  her  life  she  had  played  such  parts 
to  herself,  her  roles  varying  according  to  circum- 
stances. At  the  Purple  Shop  she  had  been  the  dreamy 
little  artist,  destined  for  higher  things,  but  forced 


84  BEDOUIN    LOVE 

by  cruel  poverty  to  act  as  assistant  saleswoman  to 
a  soulless  mother,  and  to  smile  bravely  at  the  world, 
though  her  artist's  heart  was  breaking.  When  first 
she  had  come  to  Eversfield  and  had  fallen  under  the 
spell  of  the  green  woods,  she  had  had  a  severe  bout 
of  "Merrie  England."  She  had  tripped  through 
the  fields  in  a  sun-bonnet,  and  had  begged  her  mother 
to  buy  a  harpsichord.  She  had  joined  a  society  of 
ladies  in  Oxford  who  were  attempting  to  revive 
folk-dancing,  and  she  had  footed  it  nimbly  on  the 
sward  while  the  curate  played  "Hey-diddle-diddle" 
to  them  on  his  flute. 

Later  she  had  gone  through  the  nymph-and-fairy 
phase,  and,  in  the  depth  of  the  woods,  had  let  her 
hair  down  so  that  it  looked  in  the  sunlight,  she  sup- 
posed, like  woven  gold.  She  had  danced  her  way 
barefooted  from  tree  to  tree,  sipping  the  dew  from 
the  dog-roses,  and  singing  snatches  of  strange,  wild 
songs  about  the  "little  people,"  and  talking  to  the 
birds;  and  when  Farmer  Cartwright  had  caught 
her  at  it,  she  had  looked  at  him,  she  believed,  like 
a  startled  fawn. 

But  now,  since  the  new  Squire,  with  his  back- 
ground of  rich  lands  and  ancient  tenure,  had  come 
into  her  life,  she  had  played  the  little  helpmate, 
the  goodwife  in  her  dairy,  the  mistress  in  her  kitchen 
with  whole-hearted  enthusiasm.  She  thought  of  be- 
ginning to  collect  a  book  of  Simples,  in  which  there 
would  be  much  mention  of  Marjoram,  Rosemary, 
Rue  and  Thyme;  soveraign  Balsames  for  Woundes, 
and  Cordiall  Tinctures  for  ye  Collicke;  receipts  for 
the  making  of  Quince-Wine,  or  Syllabubs  of  Apri- 
cocks;  and  so  forth.    Phrases  such  as  "The  little 


SETTLING  DOWN  85 

mistress  of  the  big  house,"  "My  lady  in  her  pleas- 
aunce,"  or  " — in  her  herbal  garden,"  had  been  drift- 
ing through  her  head  for  some  time  past;  and  hence 
her  offer  to  set  Jim's  cuisine  to  rights  fell  naturally 
from  her  lips. 

Nor  was  this  the  only  show  of  interest  she  dis- 
played in  his  domestic  affairs.  After  the  meal  was 
finished  and  they  were  sitting  around  the  fire  in  the 
library,  she  asked  Jim  to  show  her  the  drawing-room, 
which  was  not  yet  in  use;  and  when  he  was  about  to 
lead  her  to  it  she  made  peremptory  signs  to  her 
mother  to  refrain  from  accompanying  them. 

As  she  tiptoed  down  the  passage  and  across  the 
hall  at  Jim's  side,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
proffered  arm,  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  lightness 
of  the  touch  of  her  fingers.  He  did  not,  perhaps, 
compare  it  actually  to  thistledown,  which,  at  the 
moment,  was  the  description  her  own  mind  was 
fondly  giving  it;  but  her  painstaking  effort  to  de- 
feat the  Newtonian  law  resulted,  as  she  desired,  in 
an  increased  consciousness  on  his  part  that  she  was 
a  very  fairy-like  creature. 

The  drawing-room  was  in  darkness,  and  as  they 
entered  it  she  uttered  a  little  squeak  of  nervousness 
which  went,  as  it  was  intended,  straight  to  his  manly 
heart.  He  put  his  disengaged  hand  on  her  fingers 
and  felt  their  response:  they  seemed  to  be  seeking 
his  protection,  and  his  senses  were  thrilled  at  the 
contact.     He  could  have  kissed  her  as  she  stood. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  'Til  light  the  candles." 

"No,  don't,"  she  answered.  "It  looks  so  ghostly 
and  wonderful." 

She  crept  forward  into  the  room,  Into  which  only 


86  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

the  reflected  light  from  the  hall  penetrated,  and 
presently  she  came  to  a  stand  upon  the  hearth-rug. 
He  followed  her,  and  stood  close  at  her  side;  one 
might  have  harkcned  to  both  their  hearts  beating. 
Then,  boldly,  he  put  his  arm  in  hers  and  took  hold 
of  her  hand.     It  was  trembling. 

"Why,"  he  said,  in  surprise,  "you're  shaking  with 
fright." 

"No,  it  isn't  fright,"  she  stammered.  .   .   . 

The  voice  of  worldly  wisdom  whispered  to  him: 
"Look  out! — this  is  getting  precious  close  to  the 
danger  zone";  and,  with  a  saner  impulse,  he  re- 
moved his  hand  from  hers,  struck  a  match,  and  lit 
the  candle. 

"Oh,  now  you've  spoilt  it!"  she  exclaimed,  not 
without  irritation,  and  then  added  quickly:  "The 
ghosts  have  vanished." 

He  held  the  candle  up,  and  told  her  to  look  round 
the  room;  but  as  she  did  so  his  own  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  averted  face,  and  had  she  turned  she 
would  have  realized  at  once  that  her  triumph  was 
nigh. 


Chapter  VII:     THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL 

UPON  the  following  afternoon  the  vicar  came 
to  call  at  the  manor.  Jim  had  handed  over 
to  him  as  the  oldest  friend  of  the  late  Squire 
all  his  uncle's  letters,  diaries,  and  other  papers,  and 
had  asked  him  to  look  through  them;  and,  the  task 
being  accomplished,  he  was  now  bringing  them  back, 
carefully  docketed  and  tied  up  in  a  large  parcel. 

As  he  entered  the  house  there  came  to  his  vener- 
able ears  the  sounds  of  singing  and  the  twanging 
of  strings. 

"Dear  me,  what  is  that?"  he  asked  the  maid, 
pausing  In  the  hall. 

"Oh,  it's  only  the  master  a-playing  of  'is  banjo," 
the  girl  explained,  smiling  at  the  vicar,  who  had 
been  her  friend  since  her  earliest  childhood.  "  'E 
often  gets  took  like  that,  sir.  Cook  says  it's  'is 
furrin  blood." 

"But  he  has  no  foreign  blood,"  Mr.  Glenning 
told  her. 

"  'E  looks  a  furrin  gentleman,"  she  replied,  "and 
'is  ways  ..."  She  paused,  remembering  her  man- 
ners. 

The  vicar  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
here  he  found  the  Squire  seated  upon  the  arm  of 
the  sofa,  his  guitar  across  his  knees. 

"Hullo,  padre  1"  said  Jim,  "I\xcusc  the  music." 
He  was  somewhat  abashed  at  thus  being  taken  un- 

87 


88  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

awares,  for  he  had  little  idea  that  his  singing  was 
anything  but  an  infernal  noise,  intended  by  Nature 
to  be  a  vent  to  the  feelings.  And  these  feelings, 
just  now,  were  of  a  somewhat  violent  character, 
for,  though  he  was  not  yet  aware  of  his  plight,  he 
was  in  love. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon  he  had  gone 
for  a  wandering  walk  in  the  woods  adjoining  the 
manor,  in  order  to  escape  a  sense  of  depression 
which  had  descended  upon  him.  "It  must  be  this  old 
house,"  he  had  said  to  himself,  "with  its  weight  of 
years.  It  feels  like  a  trap  in  which  I've  been  caught, 
a  trap  laid  by  the  forefathers  to  catch  the  children 
and  teach  them  their  manners."  And  therewith  he 
had  rushed  out  into  the  sunshine. 

Mr.  Glenning  smiled  indulgently.  "I  shall  have 
to  make  use  of  your  voice  in  church,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't!"  Jim  laughed,  pretending  to 
edge  away.     "Your  choir  is  bad  enough  as  it  is." 

The  vicar  was  hurt,  and  Jim  hastened  to  obliterate 
his  thoughtless  words  by  remarking  that  he  had,  not 
long  since,  come  in  from  a  tour  of  exploration  in 
the  woods,  and  had  found  them  very  pleasant. 

"Yes,"  his  visitor  replied,  "they  have  grown  up 
nicely.  In  the  Civil  War  all  the  trees  were  felled 
by  Cromwell's  men  during  the  siege  of  Oxford; 
but  one  of  your  ancestors  replanted  the  devastated 
area  after  the  Restoration,  and  the  place  now  looks, 
I  dare  say,  just  as  it  did  before  that  unfortunate 
quarrel." 

The  thought  did  not  please  Jim.  Even  the  woods, 
then,  which  that  afternoon  seemed  to  him  to  be  a 
place  of  escape  from  the  pall  of  history,  were  but 


THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL         89 

a  part  of  the  chain  of  ancient  circumstances  which 
bound  the  whole  estate.  Even  in  their  depths  he 
would  not  be  out  of  hearing  of  the  voice  of  his 
forefathers,  which  told  him  that  they  had  sowed  for 
posterity  and  that  he  must  do  likewise. 

He  dismissed  the  irksome  reflection  by  asking 
the  vicar  the  nature  of  the  parcel  which  he  had  de- 
posited on  the  table. 

Mr.  Glenning  explained  that  it  contained  his 
uncle's  letters,  and  therewith  he  unfastened  the 
string,  ceremoniously,  and  revealed  a  bundle  of  small 
packets.  "I  have  been  through  all  these,  except  this 
one  package,"  he  said,  holding  up  a  small  parcel, 
"and  I  certainly  think  they  are  worth  keeping,  for 
they  display  your  uncle's  noble  character  in  a  variety 
of  w'ays." 

"He  seems  to  have  been  a  fine  old  fellow,"  Jim 
remarked. 

"He  was,  indeed,"  replied  the  vicar.  "He  rep- 
resented all  the  best  in  our  English  life."  And 
therewith  he  enlarged  upon  the  dead  man's  virtues, 
while  Jim  listened  attentively,  feeling  that  the  words 
were  intended  as  an  admonition  to  himself. 

At  length  Mr.  Glenning  turned  to  the  unopened 
package.  "I  have  been  much  exercised  in  my  mind," 
he  said,  "^as  to  what  to  do  in  regard  to  this  one 
packet.  It  is  marked,  as  you  see,  'To  be  destroyed 
at  my  death.'  Of  course,  the  words  do  not  actually 
state  that  the  contents  arc  not  to  be  read;  but  I 
thought  it  would  be  best  to  consult  you  first." 

"Thanks,"  replied  Jim.  "I'll  have  a  look  at  it 
some  time." 

He  opened  the  drawer  in  the  bureau,  and  bundled 


90  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

the  letters  into  it,  while  the  vicar  watched  him,  feel- 
ing that  he  was  sadly  lacking  in  reverence,  and 
not  a  little  disappointed,  perhaps,  that  the  young 
man  had  not  invited  him  to  deal  with  the  unopened 
packet. 

Later,  when  Jim  was  alone  once  more,  he  took  this 
mysterious  packet  from  the  drawer,  and,  seating 
himself  upon  the  sofa  beside  the  fire,  cut  the  string. 

The  nature  of  the  contents  was  at  once  apparent: 
they  were  the  relics  of  an  affair  of  the  heart,  and 
a  glance  at  the  signature  of  two  or  three  of  the 
letters  revealed  the  fact  that  the  writer  was  not 
Jim's  aunt.  "Ah,"  said  he,  with  satisfaction,  "then 
the  old  paragon  was  human,  like  all  the  rest  of  us." 

A  perusal  of  the  badly-written  pages,  however, 
dispelled  the  atmosphere  of  romance  which  the  first 
short  messages  of  twenty  years  ago  had  promised. 
The  story  began  well  enough,  so  far  as  he  could 
gather.  The  lady,  whose  name  was  Emily,  had 
evidently  lost  her  heart  to  her  middle-aged  lover, 
and  was  delighted  with  the  little  house  he  had  pro- 
vided for  her  in  a  London  suburb.  Two  or  three 
years  later  she  became  a  mother,  but  the  child  had 
died,  and  there  was  a  pathetic  document  recording 
her  grief.  In  more  recent  years  the  intrigue  had 
developed  into  an  established  union;  and  Emily,  now 
grown  complacent,  and  probably  fat,  became  a  sec- 
ondary spouse  and  mistress  of  the  old  gentleman's 
alternative  home.  The  tale  ended,  however,  with 
Emily's  marriage,  two  years  ago,  at  the  age  of  forty, 
to  a  young  city  clerk;  and  the  only  romantic  features 
of  the  close  of  his  uncle's  double  life  was  the  fact  that 


THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL         91 

he  had  preserved  a  little  handkerchief  of  hers  and 
a  dead  rose, 

"Well,  Emily,"  said  Jim,  aloud,  "I  wish  you 
luck,  wherever  you  are" ;  and  with  that  he  gently 
thrust  the  relics  into  the  flames. 

For  some  time  he  lay  back  upon  the  sofa  in  the 
firelight,  his  arms  behind  his  head,  and  thought 
over  the  story  which  had  been  revealed.  It  seemed, 
then,  that  the  Eleventh  Commandment,  "Thou 
shalt  not  be  found  out,"  was  the  essential  of  re- 
spectable life.  A  man  could  do  what  he  liked, 
provided  that  his  delinquencies  were  hidden  from 
his  neighbours.  Was  this  sheer  hypocrisy? — or  was 
there  some  principle  behind  the  code?  Did  not 
Plato  once  say:  "Every  man  should  exert  himself 
never  to  appear  to  any  one  to  be  of  base  metal?" 
He  had  read  the  quotation  somewhere.  Ought  a 
man's  epitaph,  then,  to  be:  "He  lived  nobly,  in  that 
he  kept  up  appearances"? — or  would  it  be  better 
frankly  to  write:  "He  tried  to  walk  delicately,  but 
the  old  Adam  tripped  him  up?" 

What  would  the  vicar,  what  would  Miss  Proud- 
foote,  have  said  had  either  of  them  known  of  this 
double  life?  Where  would  then  have  been  the  beau- 
tiful example  of  a  goodly  life  which  his  uncle  had  left 
behind  him  as  an  inspiration  to  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood?   Was  it  not  better  that  the  secret  was  kept? 

He  found  no  answer  to  the  questions  which  he 
thus  put  to  himself;  and  all  that  was  apparent  to 
him  was  that  decent  society  was  based  not  upon  the 
truth,  but  upon  the  hiding  of  the  truth,  and  that  the 
more  lofty  the  pretence  the  more  high-principled 
would  be   the  community.      "Truly,"   he  muttered, 


92  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

"we  Anglo-Saxons  are  called  hypocrites;  but  it  is 
our  hypocrisy  that  keeps  us  clean  1"  And  with  that 
he  returned  to  his  guitar. 

A  few  days  later  he  took  Dolly  for  a  walk  across 
the  fields.  It  was  an  autumnal  afternoon,  and  al- 
though the  sun  shone  down  from  a  cloudless  sky, 
there  was  a  chilly  haze  over  the  land,  which  pre- 
saged the  coming  of  the  first  frosts. 

"I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  stand  an  English 
winter,"  he  said  to  her,  as  they  sat  to  rest  upon  a 
stile,  under  an  oak  from  which  the  leaves  were  fall- 
ing. "Just  look  at  the  branches  up  there.  They 
are  nearly  bare  already."     He  shuddered. 

She  looked  at  him  almost  reproachfully.  "Oh, 
I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she  replied.  "I 
love  the  winter.  I  am  a  child  of  the  North,  you 
know.  To  me  the  grey  skies  and  the  bare  trees 
have  a  sort  of  meaning  I  can't  quite  explain.  They 
are  so  ...  so  English.  Think  of  the  long,  dark 
evenings,  when  you  sit  over  the  hearth,  and  the  fire- 
light jumps  and  dances  about  the  walls.  Think  how 
cosy  one  feels  when  one  is  tucked  up  in  bed." 

He  glanced  down  at  her,  and  she  smiled  up  at 
him  with  innocent  eyes. 

"Think  of  the  snow  on  the  ground,"  she  went 
on,  "and  the  robins  hopping  about.  You  should 
just  see  me  scampering  over  the  snow  in  my  big 
country  boots,  and  sliding  down  the  lane.  Oh,  it's 
lovely!" 

"I  shouldn't  think  my  house  is  very  warm,"  he 
mused. 

"It  could  be  made  awfully  cosy,  I'm  sure,"  she 
said.     "You  must  have  big  log  fires;  and  if  I  were 


THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL         93 

you  I'd  buy  some  screens  to  put  behind  the  sofas  and 
armchairs  around  the  fire,  so  that  you  can  have  little 
lamp-lit  corners  where  you  can  sit  as  warm  as  a 
toast." 

"Yes,  that's  a  good  idea,"  he  answered. 

"Have  you  got  a  woolly  waistcoat?"  she  asked, 
and  when  he  replied  in  the  negative  she  told  him 
that  she  would  knit  one  for  him  at  once.  "I  love 
knitting,"  she  said;  and  at  the  moment  she  believed 
that  she  did. 

As  they  walked  on  she  enlarged  upon  the  delights 
of  winter;  and  such  pleasant  pictures  did  she  draw 
that  Jim  began  to  think  the  coming  experience  might 
hold  unexpected  happiness  for  him.  She  managed, 
somehow,  to  introduce  herself  into  all  the  scenes 
which  she  sketched,  now  as  a  smiling  little  figure, 
vibrating  with  healthy  life  in  the  open  air,  now  purr- 
ing like  a  warm,  sleepy  kitten  before  the  fire  indoors. 

"From  what  I  saw  the  other  night,"  she  told  him, 
"you  seem  to  have  an  excellent  hot-water  supply. 
You'll  be  able  to  have  beautiful  hot  baths.  ...  I 
simply  love  lying  in  a  boiling  bath  before  I  go  to 
bed,  don't  you?" 

"I  can't  say  I  do,"  he  laughed.  "It  makes  the 
sheets  feel  so  cold." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  have  them  warmed,  with  a 
hot-bottle  or  something,"  she  explained.  "When  it's 
very,  very  cold  I  sometimes  creep  into  bed  with 
mother,  and  we  cuddle  up  and  warm  each  other." 

Again  he  glanced  down  at  her  quickly,  wonder- 
ing. .   .   .  But  her  eyes  were  those  of  a  child. 

Presently   their   path    led   them   through    a   gate 


94  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

into  a  field  in  which  a  few  cows  were  grazing;  and 
on  seeing  them  Dolly  hesitated. 

"You'll  think  me  awfully  silly,"  she  faltered, 
swallowing  nervously,  "but  I'm  rather  frightened 
of  cows." 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "Take  my  arm,"  he 
said;  and  without  waiting  for  her  to  do  so,  he 
linked  his  own  arm  in  hers  and  laid  his  hand  over 
her  fingers. 

She  looked  anxiously  at  a  mild-eyed,  motherly 
cow  which,  weighed  down  by  her  full  udder,  moved 
towards  them  slowly.  "Oh  dear,"  she  whispered, 
"d'you  think  that  cow  is  a  bull?" 

She  tugged  at  his  arm,  hurrying  him  forward; 
and  thereat  he  closed  his  hand  more  tightly  over 
hers  and  drew  her  close  to  him.  He  had  always 
regarded  himself  as  a  man  of  the  world,  and  his 
intellect  had  ever  poked  fun  at  his  sentiments.  Yet 
now,  in  a  situation  so  blatantly  commonplace  that 
he  might  have  been  expected  to  be  totally  unmoved 
by  it,  he  was  intrigued  like  a  novice.  Protecting  a 
maiden  from  the  cows! — it  was  the  A. B.C.  of  the 
bumpkin's  lovelore;  and  yet  that  vulgar  old  lady. 
Nature,  had  once  more  effectually  employed  her 
hackneyed  device  to  his  undoing,  and  here  was  he 
rejoicing  in  his  protective  strength,  thrilled  by  the 
beating  heart  of  a  frightened  girl,  as  all  his  ancestors 
for  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years  had  been  thrilled 
before  him  in  the  heydays  of  their  adolescence  and 
in  the  morning  of  life. 

The  amiable  cow  breathed  heavily  at  them  from 
a   discreet   distance,    and   then,   suddenly   hilarious, 


THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL         95 

lowered  her  head,  kicked  out  her  hind  legs,  and 
gambolled  beside  them  for  a  few  yards. 

"Oh,  oh!"  cried  Dolly,  grabbing  at  Jim's  coat 
with  her  disengaged  hand.  "Tm  sure  he's  going  to 
toss  us!     Oh,  do  let's  run!" 

Jim  halted,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the  matronly 
beast.  At  that  moment  the  jeering  sprite  which 
sits  in  the  brain  of  every  Anglo-Saxon,  pointing 
with  the  finger  of  mockery  at  his  heroics,  was  pushed 
from  its  throne;  and  for  a  brief  spell  the  bravado 
of  primitive,  gasconading  man — the  young  Adam 
cock-a-hoop — was  dominant.  Jim  stepped  forward, 
dragging  Dolly  with  him,  and  hit  the  astonished  cow 
sharply  across  her  flank  with  his  hand,  whereat  she 
went  off  at  her  best  speed  across  the  turf. 

"Oh,  how  brave  you  are!"  whispered  Dolly;  and 
with  that  the  jesting  sprite  climbed  back  upon  its 
throne,  and  Jim  was  covered  with  shame. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said.  "You  don't  suppose  cows 
are  put  into  a  field  through  which  there's  a  right 
of  way  unless  they  are  perfectly  harmless,  do  you?" 

But  pass  it  off  as  he  micht,  Nature  had  played  her 
old,  old  trick  upon  him,  and  in  some  subtle  manner 
his  relationship  to  Dolly  had  become  more  intimate, 
more  alluring;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  when  he  said 
"good-bye"  to  her  he  asked  to  be  allowed  soon  to 
see  her  again. 

"I  want  to  go  in  to  a  lecture  in  Oxford  to-morrow 
evening,"  she  replied;  "but  mother  has  to  go  to 
London,  and  won't  be  back  in  time  to  take  me. 
Would  you  like  to  come?" 

"What's  the  lecture  about?"  he  asked. 

"  'The  Emotional  Development  of  the  Child,'  " 


96  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

she  replied.  "I  love  anything  to  do  with  children, 
and  everybody  says  Professor  Robarts  is  wonderful. 
He  believes  that  a  child's  character  is  formed  in 
the  first  three  or  four  years  of  its  life,  and  he  thinks 
all  girls  should  learn  just  what  to  do,  so  that  when 
they  have  babies  of  their  own  .  .  ."  She  paused, 
and  a  dreamy  look  came  into  her  eyes:  a  speaking 
look  which  told  of  what  the  psycho-analysts  call 
"the  mother-urge" ;  and  it  made  precisely  that  im- 
pression upon  Jim's  excited  senses  which  it  was  in- 
tended to  make. 

Wise  was  the  Buddha  when,  in  answer  to  Anan- 
da's  question  as  to  how  he  should  behave  in  the 
presence  of  women,  he  made  the  laconic  reply: 
"Keep  wide  awake." 

"Right!"  said  Jim.  "I'll  order  old  Hook's 
barouche,  and  drive  you  in." 

She  told  him  that  the  lecture  was  to  begin  at 
nine,  and  he  left  her  with  the  promise  that  he  would 
call  for  her  in  good  time. 

Alone  once  more  in  his  house,  he  could  not  put 
the  thought  of  her  from  his  mind.  This,  perhaps, 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  he  was  a  hot-blooded 
gipsy  in  more  than  appearance,  and  she  was  as  pretty 
and  soft  a  little  picture  of  feminine  charm  as  ever 
graced  an  English  village.  He  failed,  at  any  rate, 
to  follow  her  strategy,  and  permitted  himself  to  be 
flustered  by  it,  although  there  was  no  deliberate 
method  in  her  movements,  nor  did  she  employ  any 
but  those  wiles  which  came  almost  instinctively  to 
her.  Jim,  with  his  experience,  ought  to  have  realized 
that  a  woman  who  talks  to  a  man  innocently  on 
intimate  matters,  such  as  those  which  had  cropped 


THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL         97 

up  without  apparent  intent  in  their  recent  conversa- 
tion, is,  either  consciously  or  unconsciously.  Nature's 
agent-provocateur.  She  is  leading  his  thoughts  in 
that  direction  which  is  the  goal  of  her  life,  accord- 
ing to  the  ruthless  whisperings  of  Nature,  who  does 
not  care  one  snap  of  the  fingers  for  any  but  the  first 
member  of  that  blessed  trinity,  Body,  Soul  and 
Spirit.  The  deft  art  of  suggestion,  in  the  hands 
of  an  unscrupulous  woman,  is  dangerous;  but  in 
those  of  a  feather-brained  little  conglomerate  of 
feminine  charms  and  instincts,  it  is  deadly. 

These  quiet  summer  and  autumn  months  in  the 
heart  of  the  English  countryside  had  sobered  Jim*s 
mind,  and  his  exalted  fancy,  which  had  led  him  at 
times  as  it  were  to  hurl  himself  at  the  gates  of 
heaven,  was  gone  from  him.  He  told  himself  that, 
having  inherited  this  ancient  house,  it  was  his  busi- 
ness to  take  to  his  bosom  a  wife  and  helpmate.  His 
primitive  manhood  had  been  stirred  by  her,  and  his 
civilized  reason  justified  the  riot  of  his  mere  senses 
by  the  plea  of  practical  advantage  and  domestic 
necessity.  She  was  a  splendid  little  housewife,  he 
mused,  a  quiet  little  country  girl  who  had  learnt 
her  lesson  in  the  school  of  privation.  She  was 
so  dainty,  so  soft,  so  pretty;  she  would  always  be 
singing  and  smiling  about  the  house,  arranging  the 
flowers,  drawing  hack  the  chintz  curtains  to  let  the 
sunlight  in,  dusting  and  polishing  things,  and,  in 
the  evenings,  sitting  curled  up  in  an  arm-chair  knit- 
ting him  waistcoats.  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  adorn 
her  in  pretty  dresses  and  jewels,  to  take  her  up  to 
London  and  show  her  the  world,  and  to  give  her  the 
keys  of  the  domestic  store-cupboards.     So  often  in 


98  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

his  life  he  had  been  afflicted  by  the  sense  of  his 
lonehness;  but  with  her  at  his  side  that  mental 
malady  would  be  exorcized  like  a  dreary  ghost. 

With  such  trivialities,  when  there  is  no  real  love, 
Nature  the  Unscrupulous  disguises  her  crude  designs, 
and  hides  the  one  thing  that  interests  her  in  a  shower 
of  rice.  All  men  and  maidens  are  pawns  in  the 
murderous  game  of  Survival;  and  whether  they  go 
to  happiness  or  to  their  doom  is  a  matter  of  utter 
indifference  to  the  Player.  Fortunately,  there  are 
souls  as  well  as  bodies,  and  of  souls  a  greater  than 
Nature  is  Master. 

The  remarkable  fact  was  that  Jim,  whose  mind 
was  now  so  full  of  the  conjugal  idea,  was  in  no 
way  suited  to  a  domestic  life.  He  was  a  rover,  a 
self-constituted  alien  from  society;  but  the  original 
line  of  his  thoughts  had  been  warped  by  his  inherit- 
ance of  the  family  property,  following  as  it  did  so 
closely  upon  his  experience  in  the  rest-house  at  Kom- 
es-Sultan  and  his  consequent  distaste  for  isolation. 
He  was,  as  it  were,  a  wild  Bedouin  tribesman  from 
the  desert,  sojourning  in  a  village  caravanserai; 
and  this  little  maiden  who  had  sidled  up  to  him 
had  so  taken  his  fancy  that  the  habitation  of  man 
had  come  to  seem  an  agreeable  home,  and  the  dis- 
tant uplands  were  forgotten. 

The  grey  and  dreamy  spires  of  Oxford  themselves 
had  wrought  a  change  in  him.  No  man  can  come 
under  their  influence  and  maintain  his  mental  lib- 
erty: they  are  like  a  drug,  soothing  him  into  quies- 
cence; they  are  like  a  poem  that  drones  into  the 
brain  the  vanity  of  vigorous  action.  P>om  the  win- 
dows of  the  manor  they  could  be  seen  rising  out  of 


THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL         99 

an  almost  perpetual  haze,  and  sometimes  the  breeze 
carried  to  this  ancient  house  the  ancient  sound  of 
their  chimes  and  their  tolling.  They  seemed  to 
preach  the  blessedness  of  a  quiet,  peaceful  life — 
home,  marriage,  children;  the  continuous  reproduc- 
tion of  unchanging  types  and  the  mild  obedience 
to  the  law  of  nature. 

On  the  following  evening  Mr.  Hook  drove  them 
into  Oxford  in  the  old  barouche.  It  was  a  chilly 
night,  and  as  the  carriage  rumbled  along  the  dark 
lanes  Jim  and  Dolly  sat  close  to  one  another,  with 
a  fur  rug  spread  across  their  knees. 

"I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  to  a  lecture  before 
in  my  life,"  said  he,  when  their  destination  was 
reached. 

"Nor  had  I,"  she  replied,  "until  we  came  to  live 
at  Eversfield.  But  it  seems  to  be  the  correct  thing 
to  do  in  Oxford."  She  amended  her  words:  "I 
mean,  the  most  interesting  thing  to  do." 

The  lecture  was  delivered  in  the  hall  of  one  of 
the  colleges,  and  the  Professor  proved  to  be  a  dull, 
reasonable  man  of  the  family  doctor  type,  who  never- 
theless aroused  his  audience,  mostly  female,  to 
stern  expressions  of  approval  by  his  declaration  that 
the  hand  that  spanks  the  baby  rules  the  world,  and 
that  Waterloo  was  won  across  the  British  mother's 
lap. 

It  was  aften  ten  o'clock  when  they  entered  the 
carriage  for  the  return  journey;  and  before  they  had 
passed  the  outskirts  of  Oxford  Dolly  began  to  yawn. 

"I  went  for  a  tremendous  long  ramble  in  the 
woods  to-day,"  she  explained,  "and  now  I  can  hardly 
keep  my  eyes  open." 


100  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

He  arranged  the  rug  around  her,  and  made  her 
put  her  feet  up  on  the  opposite  seat;  then,  extend- 
ing his  arm  so  that  it  rested  behind  her  back,  he 
told  her  to  take  off  her  hat,  lean  her  head  against 
him,  and  go  to  sleep.  She  settled  herself  down  in 
this  manner,  naturally  and  without  any  hesitation: 
she  was  like  a  tired  child. 

In  the  carriage  there  was  only  a  glimmer  of  light 
from  the  two  lamps  outside;  and  as  he  sat  back 
somewhat  stiffly  upon  the  jolting  seat  he  could  but 
dimly  see  the  mop  of  her  fair  hair  against  his 
shoulder  and  the  tip  of  her  nose.  He  felt  extraor- 
dinarily happy,  and  there  was  a  tenderness  in  his 
attitude  towards  her  which  was  overwhelming.  She 
seemed  so  innocent  and  so  trustful;  and  when  for 
a  moment  the  thought  entered  his  head  that  there 
was  perhaps  some  half-conscious  artifice  in  her  be- 
haviour, he  dismissed  the  suggestion  with  resentment. 

The  carriage  rolled  on,  and  in  the  darkness  he 
dreamt  his  dream  just  as  all  young  men  have  dreamt 
It  since  the  world  began.  It  seemed  clear  to  him, 
now,  that  he  had  missed  the  best  of  life,  because 
he  had  seldom  had  an  intimate  comrade  with  whom 
to  share  Tiis  experiences;  for,  as  Seneca  said,  "the 
possession  of  no  good  thing  is  pleasant  without  a 
companion."  In  the  days  of  his  wanderings,  of 
course,  a  companion  had  been  out  of  the  question; 
but  now  his  travels  were  done,  and  there  were  no 
hardships  to  deter  him  from  marriage.  He  recalled 
the  words  of  the  Caliph  Omar  which  an  Egyptian 
had  once  quoted  to  him:  "After  the  Faith,  no  bless- 
ing is  equal  to  a  good  wife";  and  he  remembered 


THE  GAME  OF  SURVIVAL       loi 

something  In  the  Bible  about  her  price  being  far 
above  rubies. 

Yet  such  thoughts  as  these  were  but  the  feeble 
efforts  of  the  mind  to  keep  pace  with  the  senses. 
He  was  like  a  drunken  man  who  speaks  slowly  and 
distinctly  to  prove  that  he  is  not  drunk.  Had  his 
senses  permitted  him  to  be  honest  with  himself  he 
would  have  admitted  that  consideration  of  the  ad- 
vantages of  marriage  had  little  influence  upon  him 
just  now:  he  wanted  Dolly  for  his  own;  he  wanted 
to  put  his  arms  about  her  and  to  kiss  her  here  and 
now  while  she  slept;  he  wanted  to  pull  her  hair  down 
so  that  it  should  tumble  about  his  fingers;  he  wanted 
to  feel  her  heart  beating  under  his  hand,  to  hear 
the  sigh  of  her  breath  close  to  his  ear.  .   .   . 

He  bent  his  head  down  so  that  his  lips  came  close 
to  her  forehead,  and  as  he  did  so  she  raised  her 
face.  He  was  too  deeply  bewitched  to  realize  that, 
far  from  being  tired,  she  was  at  that  moment  a 
conquering  woman,  working  at  high  pressure,  acutely 
aware  of  his  every  movement,  her  nerves  and  senses 
strained  to  win  that  which  she  so  greatly  desired. 

For  some  minutes  he  remained  abnormally  still, 
a  little  shy  perhaps,  perhaps  desiring  to  linger  upon 
the  wonderful  moment  like  a  child  agape  at  the 
threshold  of  a  circus.     Presently  she  sat  up. 

"Why,  I've  been  asleep !"  she  exclaimed.  "Are 
we  nearly  home?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  without  rousing  himself  from 
his  dream. 

She  raised  her  hands  to  her  head;  she  did  some- 
thing with  her  fingers  which,  in  the  dim  light,  lie 


102  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

could  not  see;  and  a  moment  later  he  felt  her  hair 
tumbling  about  his  hand. 

"Oh  dear,  my  hair's  fallen  down,"  she  said. 

He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.  "Don't  wake  up  I" 
he  gasped.  "Put  your  head  down  again  where  it 
was." 

With  a  sigh  of  contentment  she  did  as  she  was 
told;  but  now  his  arms  were  around  her,  and  all  his 
ten  fingers  were  buried  in  her  hair.  He  could  just 
discern  her  eyes  looking  up  at  him  with  a  sort  of  dis- 
may in  them;  he  could  see  her  mouth  a  little  open. 
He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  lips. 


Chapter  VIII:     MARRIAGE 

AN  old  proverb  says  that  marriages  are  made 
in  heaven.  It  is  one  of  those  ridiculous 
utterances  born  of  primitive  fatalism:  it  is 
akin  to  the  statement  that  afflictions  are  sent  by  God 
for  His  inscrutable  purpose.  Actually,  marriages  in 
their  material  aspect  are  made  by  soulless  Nature, 
who  plots  and  plans  for  nothing  else,  and  who  cares 
for  nothing  else  except  the  production  of  the  next 
generation. 

One  cannot  blame  Dolly  for  using  the  less  worthy 
arts  of  her  sex  to  capture  the  man  she  wanted.  One 
cannot  think,  ill  of  Jim  for  having  been  betrayed 
by  his  senses  into  an  alliance  wherein  there  was  little 
hope  of  happiness.  Nature  has  strewn  the  whole 
world  with  her  traps;  she  tricks  and  inveigles  all 
young  men  and  women  with  these  dreams  and  prom- 
ises of  joy;  she  schemes  and  intrigues  and  conspires 
for  one  purpose,  and  one  purpose  only;  and  in  so 
doing  she  has  no  more  thought  of  that  spiritual 
union,  which  is  the  only  sort  of  marriage  made  in 
heaven,  than  she  has  when  she  sends  the  pollen  from 
one  flower  to  the  next  upon  the  wings  of  the  bees. 

Human  beings  in  the  spring-time  of  life  are  the 
dupes  of  Nature's  heedless  juie  dc  vivrc,  and  for- 
tunate are  those  who  can  take  her  animal  pranks 
in  good  part  and  avoid  getting  hurt.  Her  victims 
are  swayed  and  tossed  about  by  yearnings  and  de- 
sires, passions  and  jealousies,  trcmcntlous  joys  and 

103 


104  BKDOUIX   LOVE 

desperate  sorrows:  because  she  is  everywhere  at 
work  upon  the  sole  occupation  which  interests  her — 
her  scheme  of  racial  survival. 

The  marvel  is  that  so  many  marriages  are  happy, 
considering  that  youths  and  maidens  are  flung  to- 
gether, haphazard,  by  mighty  forces,  upon  the  irre- 
sistibility of  which  the  whole  existence  of  the  race 
depends.  Well  does  Nature  know  that  if  once  men 
and  women  mastered  their  yearnings,  if  once  men 
should  fail  to  hunt  and  women  to  entice,  the  game 
would  be  lost,  and  the  human  race  would  become 
extinct. 

During  the  following  week  Jim  and  Dolly  saw 
each  other  every  day;  but,  though  their  intimacy 
developed,  Jim  made  no  definite  proposal  of  mar- 
riage. He  was  a  lazy  fellow.  It  was  as  though 
he  preferred  to  drift  into  that  state  without  under- 
going the  ordeal  of  the  social  formalities.  He  seemed 
to  be  carried  along  by  circumstances,  yet  he  dreaded 
what  may  be  termed  the  business  side  of  the  matter. 

At  length  Dolly  brought  matters  to  a  point  in 
her  characteristic  manner  of  assumed  ingenuousness. 
*'I  think,  dear,"  she  said,  "we  had  better  tell  mother 
about  it  now,  hadn't  we?  She  will  be  so  hurt  if  she 
finds  that  we've  been  leaving  her  out  of  our  hap- 
piness." 

Jim  made  no  protest.  He  felt  rather  stupid,  and 
the  thought  of  going  to  Mrs.  Darling,  hand-in-hand 
with  Dolly,  seemed  to  him  to  be  positively  frighten- 
ing in  its  crudity.  It  would  be  like  walking  straight 
into  a  trap.  He  would  have  preferred  to  slip  off 
to  a  registry-ofllice,  and  to  see  no  friend  or  relative 
for  a  year  afterwards. 


MARRIAGE  105 

The  ordeal,  however,  proved  to  be  less  painful 
than  he  had  anticipated,  thanks  to  the  tact  displayed 
by  Mrs.  Darling.  When  Dolly  came  into  the  room 
at  the  cottage,  triumphantly  leading  in  her  captive, 
the  elder  woman  at  once  checked  any  utterance 
which  was  about  to  be  made  by  declaring  that  Jim 
had  just  arrived  in  time  to  advise  her  in  the  choice 
of  a  new  chintz  for  her  chairs. 

"Dolly,  dear,"  she  said,  "run  upstairs  and  fetch 
me  that  book  of  patterns,  will  you?"  And  as  soon 
as  the  girl  had  left  the  room  she  added:  "I  wonder 
whether  your  taste  will  agree  with  Dolly's?" 

"I  expect  so,"  he  replied,  significantly. 

"I  hope  so,  for  your  sake,"  she  smiled;  and  then, 
turning  confidentially  to  him,  she  whispered:  "Tell 
me  quickly,  before  she  comes  back:  do  you  seriously 
want  to  marry  her,  or  shall  I  help  you  to  get  out 
of  it?" 

Jim  was  completely  startled,  and  stammered  the 
beginning  of  an  incoherent  reply. 

She  interrupted  him,  putting  a  plump  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "It  has  been  clear  to  me  for  some  time 
that  Dolly  is  desperately  in  love  with  you,  and  I 
know  she  has  brought  you  here  to  settle  the  thing. 
But  I'm  a  woman  of  the  world,  my  dear  boy:  I  don't 
want  to  rush  you  into  anything  you  don't  intend; 
for  the  fact  is,  I  like  you  very  much  indeed." 

Jim  made  the  only  possible  reply.  "But,"  he  said 
with  conviction,  "I  want  to  marry  her.  I've  come 
to  ask  you.     May  I?" 

Mrs.  Darling  looked  at  him  intently.  "You  will 
have  to  manage  her,"  she  told  him.  "She  is  very 
young  antl  rather  full  of  absurdities,  you  know.    But 


io6  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

you  have  knocked  about  the  world:  I  should  think 
you  would  be  able  to  get  the  best  out  of  her,  and, 
anyhow,  I  shall  feel  she  is  in  good  hands." 

When  the  girl  returned,  after  a  somewhat  pro- 
longed absence,  her  mother  looked  almost  casually 
at  her.  "Dolly,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know  if  you  are 
aware  of  it,  but  you  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

Thereat  the  three  of  them  laughed  happily,  and 
the  rest  was  plain  sailing. 

Later  that  day  Dolly  strolled  arm-in-arm  with  Jim 
around  the  grounds  of  the  manor,  looking  about 
her  with  an  air  of  proprietorship  which  he  found 
very  fascinating.  The  linking  of  their  lives  and 
their  belongings  seemed  to  him  like  a  delightful 
game. 

"I  do  like  your  mother,"  he  said.  "She's  a  real 
good  sort." 

Dolly  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  "Poor  mother!" 
she  replied.  "I  don't  know  what  we  can  do  with 
her.    She  won't  like  leaving  Eversfield." 

"Oh,  why  should  she  go?"  Jim  asked. 

"It  would  never  do  for  her  to  stay,"  Dolly  an- 
swered firmly.  "Mothers-in-law  are  always  in  the 
way,  however  nice  they  are.  I'm  not  going  to  risk 
her  getting  on  your  nerves."  She  looked  at  him 
with  an  expression  like  that  of  a  wise  child. 

"Well,  we'll  rent  a  flat  for  her  in  London,"  he 
suggested,  "and  I'll  give  her  the  cottage,  too,  so 
that  she  can  come  down  to  it  sometimes." 

Dolly  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said  coldly, 
"she  has  enough  money  to  keep  herself."  His  sen- 
timents in  regard  to  her  mother  had  perhaps  ruffled 
her  somewhat,  and  an  expression  had  passed  over 


MARRIAGE  107 

her  face  which  she  hoped  he  had  not  seen.  She 
endeavoured,  therefore,  to  turn  his  thoughts  to 
more  intimate  matters.  *'I  should  hate  mother  to 
be  a  burden  to  you,"  she  went  on.  "It'll  be  bad 
enough  for  you  to  have  to  buy  all  my  clothes." 

"I  shall  love  it,"  he  replied,  with  enthusiasm. 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  how  expensive  they  are," 
she  hesitated.  "You  see,  it  isn't  only  what  shows 
on  top" — her  voice  died  down  to  a  luscious  whisper 
— "it's  all  the  things  underneath  as  well.  Women's 
clothes  are  rather  wonderful,  you  know." 

She  smiled  shyly,  and  at  that  moment  their  mar- 
riage was  to  him  a  thing  most  fervently  to  be  desired. 

Events  moved  quickly,  and  it  was  decided  that 
the  engagement  should  not  be  of  long  duration.  The 
news  of  the  coming  wedding  caused  a  great  stir  in 
the  village;  and  when  the  banns  were  read  in  the 
little  church  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  them  as  they 
sat,  he  in  the  Squire's  pew,  and  she  with  her  mother 
near  by.  They  formed  a  curious  contrast  in  type: 
she,  with  her  fair  hair,  her  child-like  face,  and  her 
dainty  little  figure;  and  he  with  his  swarthy  com- 
plexion, his  dark,  restless  eyes,  and  his  rather  un- 
tidy clothes.  People  wondered  whether  they  would 
be  happy,  and  the  general  opinion  was  that  the  little 
lamb  had  fallen  into  the  power  of  a  wolf.  The  vil- 
lage, in  fact,  had  not  taken  kindly  to  the  new  Squire 
and  his  "foreign"  ways;  and  Mrs.  Spooner,  the 
doctor's  wife,  had  voiced  the  general  opinion  by 
nicknaming  him  "Black  Rupert." 

The  weeks  passed  by  rapidly,  and  soon  Christmas 
was  upon  them.  The  wedding  was  fixed  for  the 
end  of  January,  and  during  that  month  Jim  caused 


io8  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

various  alterations  to  be  made  in  the  furnishing  of 
the  manor,  in  accordance  with  Dolly's  wishes,  for  she 
held  very  decided  views  in  this  regard,  and  did  not 
agree  with  his  retention  of  so  many  of  the  mid- 
Victorian  features  in  the  drawing-room  and  the  bed- 
rooms. He  himself  had  intended  at  first  to  be  rid  of 
most  of  these  things,  but  later  he  had  begun  to  feel, 
as  Mr.  Beadle  had  said  he  would,  that  he  owed  a 
certain  homage  to  the  past. 

"Men  don't  understand  about  these  things,"  Dolly 
said  to  him,  patting  his  face;  "but,  if  you  want  to 
please  me,  you'll  let  me  make  a  list  of  the  pieces  of 
furniture  that  ought  to  be  got  rid  of  and  sell  them." 

The  consequence  was  that  a  van-load  left  the 
manor  a  few  days  later,  and  Miss  Proudfoote  and 
the  vicar  held  one  another's  hand  as  it  passed,  and 
choked  with  every  understandable  emotion,  while 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Longarm  wept  openly  at  the  gates. 

The  wedding-day  at  length  arrived,  and  the  cere^ 
mony  proved  a  ver)'  trying  ordeal  to  Jim;  for  Mr. 
Glenning  had  organized  the  village  demonstrations 
of  goodwill,  with  the  result  that  the  school  children, 
blue  with  cold,  were  lined  up  at  the  church  door, 
the  pews  inside  were  packed  with  uncomfortably- 
dressed  yokels  with  burnished  faces  and  creaking 
boots,  and  a  great  deal  of  rice  was  thrown  as  the 
happy  couple  left  the  building. 

Afterwards  there  was  a  reception  at  the  Darling's 
cottage;  and  Jim,  wearing  a  tail-coat  and  a  stiff 
collar  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  suffered  torments 
which  were  not  entirely  ended  by  a  later  change 
into  a  brand-new  suit  of  grey  tweed.  Throughout 
this   trying   time    Mrs.    Darling,    fat    and   flushed, 


MARRIAGE  109 

proved  to  be  his  comforter  and  his  stand-by;  and 
it  was  through  her  good  offices  that  the  hired  car, 
which  was  to  take  them  to  the  railway  station  at 
Oxford,  claimed  them  an  hour  too  early. 

Dolly,  who  had  looked  like  an  angel  of  Zion  in 
her  wedding  dress,  appeared,  in  her  travelling  cos- 
tume, like  a  dryad  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  Jim, 
who  had  seen  something  of  her  trousseau,  turned  to 
Mrs.  Darling  in  rapture. 

"I  say!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  have  rigged  Dolly 
out  wonderfully!     I've  never  seen  such  clothes." 

Mrs.  Darling  smiled.  "I  believe  in  pretty 
dresses,"  she  said,  with  fervent  conviction.  "They 
tend  to  virtue.  I  believe  that  when  the  respectable 
women  of  England  took  to  wearing  what  were  called 
indecent  clothes,  they  struck  their  first  effective  blow 
at  the  power  of  Piccadilly.  Has  it  never  occurred 
to  you  that  young  peers  have  almost  ceased  to  marry 
chorus  girls  now  that  peer's  daughters  dress  like 
leading  ladies?" 

The  honeymoon  was  spent  upon  the  Riviera,  and 
here  it  was  that  Jim  realized  for  the  first  time  the 
exactions  of  marriage.  This  exquisitely  costumed 
little  wife  of  his  could  not  be  taken  to  the  kind  of 
inn  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  patronize,  and 
he  was  therefore  obliged  to  endure  all  the  discom- 
forts of  fashionable  hotel  life,  with  its  nerve-racking 
corollaries — the  jabbering  crowds,  the  perspiring, 
stiff-shirted  diners,  the  clatter,  bustle  and  perplexity, 
terminating  in  each  case  in  the  dreaded  crisis  of 
gratuity-giving  and  escape. 

With  all  his  Bedouin  heart  he  loathed  this  sort 
of  thing,  and,  had  he  not  been  the  slave  of  love, 


no  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

he  would  have  rebelled  against  it  at  once.  Dolly 
saw  his  distress,  but  only  added  to  it  by  her  superior 
efforts  to  train  him  in  the  way  in  which  he  should 
go;  and  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  profound  relief  that 
at  length  he  found  himself  in  Eversfield  once  more, 
when  the  first  buds  of  spring  were  powdering  the 
trees  with  green,  and  the  early  daffodils  were  open- 
ing to  the  growing  warmth  of  the  sun. 

Jim's  work  in  connection  with  the  estate  was  not 
onerous,  but  he  very  soon  found  that  various  small 
matters  had  constantly  to  be  seen  to,  and  often  they 
were  the  cause  of  annoyance.  Rents  were  not  al- 
ways paid  promptly,  and  if  his  agent  pressed  for 
them  the  tenants  regarded  Jim,  who  knew  nothing 
about  it,  as  stern  and  exacting.  Mr.  Merrivall  held 
his  lease  of  Rose  Cottage  on  terms  which  provided 
that  the  tenant  should  be  responsible  for  all  interior 
repairs;  and  now  he  announced  that  the  kitchen 
boiler  was  worn  out,  and  the  question  had  to  be 
decided  as  to  whether  a  boiler  was  an  interior  or  a 
structural  fitting.  Some  eighty  acres  were  farmed  by 
Mr.  Hopkins  on  a  sharing  agreement,  that  is  to 
say,  Jim  took  a  part  of  the  profits  in  lieu  of  rent; 
but  this  sort  of  arrangement  is  always  fruitful  of  dis- 
putes, and,  in  the  case  in  question,  the  fact  that  Jim 
instinctively  mistrusted  Farmer  Hopkins,  and 
Farmer  Hopkins  mistrusted  Jim,  led  at  once  to 
friction. 

Matters  came  to  a  head  in  the  early  summer. 
The  farmer  had  decided  to  remove  the  remains  of 
a  last  year's  hayrick  from  the  field  where  it  stood 
to  a  shed  near  his  stable,  and,  during  the  process, 
he  attempted  to  make  a  short-cut  by  drawing  his 


MARRIAGE  iii 

heavily-loaded  wagon  over  a  disused  bridge  which 
spanned  a  ditch.  The  bridge,  however,  collapsed 
under  the  weight,  and  the  wagon  was  wrecked. 

The  farmer  thereupon  demanded  compensation 
from  Jim,  since  the  latter  was  the  owner  of  the 
bridge  and  therefore  responsible  for  it.  Jim,  how- 
ever, replied  that  that  road  had  been  closed  for 
many  years  to  all  but  pedestrians,  and,  if  anything, 
the  fanner  ought  to  pay  for  the  mending  of  the 
bridge.  Mr.  Hopkins  then  declared  that  he  was 
going  to  law,  and,  in  the  meantime,  he  aired  his 
grievances  nightly  at  the  "Green  Man,"  the  village 
public-house. 

The  trouble  simmered  for  a  time,  and  then,  one 
morning,  the  two  men  met  by  chance  at  the  scene 
of  the  disaster.  A  wordy  argument  followed,  and 
Farmer  Hopkins,  with  a  mouthful  of  oaths,  repeated 
his  determination  to  go  to  law,  whereupon  Jim  lost 
his  temper. 

"Look  here!"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  anything 
about  your  blasted  law,  but  I  do  know  when  I'm 
being  imposed  upon.  If  you  mention  the  word 
'law'  to  me  again  I'll  put  my  fist  through  your  face." 

"Two  can  play  at  that  game,"  exclaimed  the 
farmer,  red  with  anger. 

"Very  well,  then,  come  onl"  cried  Jim,  impul- 
sively, and,  pulling  off  his  coat  and  tossing  his  hat 
aside,  he  began  to  roll  up  his  shirt-sleeves. 

Mr.  Hopkins  was  a  bigger  and  heavier  man  than 
the  Squire,  hut  Jim  had  the  advantage  of  him  in 
age,  being  some  five  years  younger,  and  they  were 
therefore  very  well  matched.  The  farmer  how- 
ever, did  not  wish  to  fight,  and,  indeed,  was  so  dis- 


112  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

concerted  at  the  prospect  that  he  stood  staring  at 
Jim's  lithe,  wild  figure  like  a  puzzled  bull. 

"Take  your  coat  off!"  Jim  shouted.  "We'll 
have  this  matter  out  now.     Put  up  your  fists!" 

The  farmer  thereupon  dragged  off  his  coat,  and  a 
moment  later  the  two  men  were  at  it  hammer  and 
tongs,  Mr.  Hopkins'  fists  swinging  like  a  windmill, 
and  Jim,  with  more  skill,  parrying  the  blows  and 
sending  right  and  left  to  his  opponent's  body  with 
good  effect.  The  first  bout  was  ended  by  Jim  dodg- 
ing a  terrific  right  and  returning  his  left  to  the  farm- 
er's jaw,  thereby  sending  him  to  the  ground. 

As  he  rose  to  his  feet  Jim  shouted  at  him :  "Well, 
will  you  now  mend  your  own  damned  cart  and  let  me 
mend  my  bridge? — or  do  you  want  to  go  on?" 

For  answer  the  infuriated  Mr.  Hopkins  charged 
at  him,  and,  breaking  his  guard,  sent  his  fist  into 
Jim's  eye;  but  he  omitted  to  follow  up  the  advantage 
with  his  idle  left,  and,  in  consequence,  received  an 
exactly  similar  blow  upon  his  own  blood-shot  optic. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  a  scream  was  heard, 
and  Dolly  appeared  from  behind  a  hedge,  a  curious 
habit  of  hers,  that  of  always  wishing  to  know  what 
her  husband  was  doing,  having  led  her  to  follow 
him  into  the  fields. 

"James!"  she  cried  in  horror — ever  since  their 
marriage  she  had  called  him  "James" — "What  are 
you  doing?     Mr.  Hopkins! — are  you  both  mad?" 

"Pretty  mad,"   replied  Jim. 

"Call  yourself  a  gentleman!"  roared  the  farmer, 
holding  his  hand  to  his  eye. 

"Oh,  please,  please!"  Dolly  entreated.  "Go 
home,  Mr.  Hopkins,  before  he  kills  you!     James, 


MARRIAGE  113 

you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  fighting  like 
a  common  man.     You  have  disgraced  me!" 

Jim,  who  was  recovering  his  coat,  looked  up  at 
her  out  of  his  one  serviceable  eye  in  astonishment. 
Then,  turning  to  his  opponent,  he  said:  "We'll  finish 
this  some  other  time,  if  you  want  to." 

He  then  walked  off  the  field  of  battle,  his  coat 
slung  across  his  shoulder  and  his  dark  hair  falling 
over  his  forehead,  while  Mr.  Hopkins  sat  down 
upon  the  stump  of  a  tree  and  spat  the  blood  out 
of  his  mouth. 

For  many  days  thereafter  Dolly  would  hardly 
speak  :to  her  disfigured  husband,  except  to  tell  him, 
when  he  walked  abroad  with  his  blackened  eye,  that 
he  had  no  shame.  Farmer  Hopkins,  however, 
mended  his  wagon  in  time,  and  Jim  mended  his 
bridge;  and  there,  save  for  much  village  head-shak- 
ing at  the  "Green  Man"  and  melancholy  talk  at 
the  vicarage,  the  matter  ended.  It  was  a  regrettable 
affair,  and  the  general  opinion  in  the  village  was 
that  "Black  Rupert"  was  a  man  to  be  avoided.  Miss 
Proudfoote,  in  fact,  would  hardly  bow  to  him  when 
next  she  passed  him  in  the  lane;  and  even  Mr.  Glen- 
ning,  who  (juarrclled  with  no  man,  gazed  at  him,  in 
church  on  the  following  Sunday,  with  an  expression 
of  deep  reproof  upon  his  venerable  face. 

It  was  after  this  painful  incident  that  Jim  formed 
the  habit  of  going  for  long  rambling  walks  by  him- 
self, or  of  wandering  deep  into  the  woods  near  the 
manor.  Sometimes  he  would  sit  for  hours  upon  a 
stile  in  the  fields,  sucking  a  straw  and  staring  va- 
cantly into  the  distance  at  the  misty  towers  and  spires 
of  the  ancient  University,  or  lie  in  the  grass,  gazing 


114  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

up  at  the  sky,  listening  to  the  far-off  bells,  his  arms 
behind  his  head.  Sometimes  he  would  take  a  book 
from  his  uncle's  library — some  eighteenth-century 
romance,  or  a  volume  of  Elizabethan  poetry — and  go 
with  it  into  the  woods,  there  to  remain  for  a  whole 
afternoon,  reading  in  it  or  in  the  book  of  Nature. 

These  woods  had  a  curious  effect  upon  him,  and 
entering  them  seemed  to  be  like  finding  sanctuary. 
It  was  not  that  his  life,  at  this  period,  was  alto- 
gether unhappy:  his  heart  was  full  of  tenderness 
towards  Dolly,  and,  if  her  behaviour  was  beginning 
to  disappoint  him,  his  attitude  was  at  first  but  one 
of  vague  disquietude.  Yet  here  amongst  the  un- 
derstanding trees  he  felt  that  he  was  taking  refuge 
from  some  menace  which  he  could  not  define;  and 
at  times  he  wondered  whether  the  sensation  was  due 
to  a  mental  throw-back  to  some  outlawed  ancestor 
who  had  roamed  the  merry  greenwood,  in  the  man- 
ner of  Adam  Bell  and  Clim  of  the  Clough  and  Wil- 
liam Cloudesley  in  the  ancient  ballads  of  the  North 
of  England. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  decided  sense  of  failure 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  a  useless  individual.  To 
a  limited  extent  he  used  his  brains  and  his  pen  in 
writing  the  verses  which  always  amused  him,  but 
he  rarely  finished  any  such  piece  of  work,  and  seldom 
composed  a  poem  of  any  considerable  length. 

His  character  was  not  of  the  kind  which  would 
be  likely  to  appeal  to  the  stay-at-home  Englishman. 
He  did  not  play  golf,  and  though  as  a  youth  he 
had  been  fond  of  cricket  and  tennis,  his  wandering 
life  had  given  him  no  opportunities  of  maintaining 
his  skill  in  these  games,  and  now  it  was  too  late  to 


MARRIAGE  115 

begin  again.  He  was  not  particularly  interested  in 
horseflesh,  and  he  had  no  mechanical  turn  which 
might  vent  itself  in  motoring.  His  habits  were  mod- 
est and  temperate;  he  preferred  pitch-and-toss  or 
*'shove-ha'penny"  to  bridge ;  and  he  was  a  poor  judge 
of  port  wine.  He  was  sociable  where  the  company 
was  to  his  taste,  but  neither  his  neighbours  at  and 
around  Eversfield,  nor  the  professors  at  Oxford, 
were  congenial  to  him.  When  there  were  visitors  to 
the  manor  he  was  generally  not  able  to  be  found;  and 
when  he  was  obliged  to  accompany  his  wife  to  the 
houses  of  other  people,  he  was  conscious  that  her 
eyes  were  upon  him  anxiously,  lest  he  should  show 
himself  for  what  he  was — a  rebel  and  an  outlaw. 

On  one  occasion  the  vicar  persuaded  him  to  sing 
and  play  his  guitar  at  a  village  concert;  but  the  re- 
sult was  disastrous,  and  the  invitation  was  never 
repeated.  He  chose  to  sing  them  Kipling's  "Man- 
dalay" ;  but  the  pathos  and  the  romance  of  the  rough 
words  were  lost  upon  his  stolid  audience,  to  whom 
there  was  no  meaning  in  the  picture  of  the  mist 
on  the  rice-fields  and  the  sunshine  on  the  palms,  nor 
sense  in  the  contrasting  description  of  the  "blasted 
Henglish  drizzle"  and  the  housemaids  with  beefy 
faces  and  grubby  hands. 

He  himself  was  carried  away  by  the  words,  and 
he  sang  with  fervour: — 

Ship  me  somewhere  east  of  Suez,  where  the  best  is  like  the 

worst, 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an'  a  man  can 

raise  a  thirst ; 
For  the  temple-bells  are  callin',  an'  it's  there  that  I  would 

By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  looking  lazy  at  the  sea. 


ii6  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

He  did  not  see  Dolly's  frowns,  nor  the  pained 
expression  upon  the  vicar's  face,  nor  yet  the  smirks 
of  the  yokels;  and  when  the  song  was  ended  he 
came  suddenly  back  to  earth,  as  it  were,  and  was 
abashed  at  the  feebleness  of  the  applause. 

Later,  as  he  left  the  hall,  he  was  stopped  outside 
the  door  by  a  disreputable,  red-haired  creature, 
nicknamed  "Smiley-face,"  who  was  often  spoken  of 
as  the  village  idiot.  He  grinned  at  Jim  and  touched 
his  forelock. 

"Thank  'e,  sir,"  he  said,  "for  that  there  song. 
My,  you  do  sing  beautiful,  sir!" 

"I'm  glad  you  liked  it,"  Jim  answered. 

"It  was  just  like  dreamin',"  Smiley-face  muttered. 

Jim  looked  at  him  quickly,  and  felt  almost  as 
though  he  had  found  a  friend.  He  himself  had 
been  dreaming  as  he  sang,  and  here,  at  any  rate, 
was  one  man  who  had  dreamed  with  him — and  they 
called  him  the  village  idiot  I 


Chapter  IX:     IN  THE  WOODS 

AS  in  the  case  of  so  many  unions  in  which 
mutual  attraction  of  a  quite  superficial  na- 
ture has  been  mistaken  for  love,  the  mar- 
riage of  Jim  and  Dolly  was  a  complete  disaster. 
Disquietude  began  to  make  itself  felt  within  a  few 
weeks,  but  many  months  elapsed  before  Jim  faced 
the  situation  without  any  further  attempt  at  self- 
deception.  The  revelation  that  he  had  nothing  to 
say  to  his  wife,  no  thought  to  exchange  with  her, 
had  come  to  him  early.  At  first  he  had  tried  to  be- 
lieve that  it  was  due  to  some  sort  of  natural  reticence 
in  both  their  natures;  and  one  day,  chancing  to  open 
a  volume  of  the  poems  of  Matthew  Arnold  which 
Dolly  had  placed  upon  an  occasional  table  in  the 
drawing-room  (for  the  look  of  the  thing)  he  had 
found  some  consolation  in  the  following  lines: — 

Alas,  is  even  Love  too  weak 

To  unlock  the  heart  and  let  it  speak? 

Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 

To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel? 

I  knew  the  mass  of  men  conceal'd 

Their  thoughts.  .  .   . 

But  we,  my  love — does  a  like  spell  benumb 

Our  hearts,  our  voices?     Must  we,  too,  be  dumb? 

Other  lovers,  then,  had  experienced  that  blank- 
wall  feeling:  it  was  just  human  nature. 

But  soon  he  began  to  realize  that  in  this  case 
the    trouble   was   more    serious.      He    had    nothing 

117 


ii8  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

to  say  to  her.  She  did  not  understand  him,  nor 
call  forth  his  confidences. 

For  months  he  had  struggled  against  the  con- 
sciousness that  he  had  made  a  fatal  mistake;  but 
at  length  the  horror  of  his  marriage,  of  his  inheri- 
tance, and  of  society  in  general  as  he  saw  it  here 
in  England,  became  altogether  too  large  a  presence 
to  hide  itself  in  the  dark  corners  of  his  mind.  It 
came  out  of  the  shadows  and  confronted  him  in  the 
daylight  of  his  heart — an  ugly,  menacing  figure, 
towering  above  him,  threatening  him,  arguing  with 
him,  whithersoever  he  went.  He  attributed  fea- 
tures to  it,  and  visualized  it  so  that  it  took  definite 
shape.  It  had  a  lewd  eye  which  winked  at  him; 
it  had  a  ponderous,  fat  body,  straining  at  the 
buttons  of  the  black  clothing  of  respectability;  it 
had  heavy,  flabby  hands  which  stroked  him  as  though 
urging  him  to  accept  its  companionship.  It  was 
his  gaoler,  and  it  wanted  to  be  friends  with  him. 

At  length  one  autumn  day,  while  he  was  sitting 
in  the  woods  among  the  falling  leaves,  he  turned 
his  inward  eyes  with  ferocious  energy  upon  the 
monster,  and  set  his  mind  to  a  full  study  of  the  situa- 
tion it  personified. 

In  the  first  place,  Dolly  held  views  in  regard  to 
the  position  and  status  of  wife  which  offended  Jim's 
every  ideal.  She  was  firmly  convinced  that  marriage 
was,  first  and  foremost,  designed  by  God  for  the 
purpose  of  producing  in  the  male  creature  a  disin- 
clination for  romance.  It  involved  a  mutual  duty,  a 
routine :  the  wife  had  functions  to  perform  with  con- 
descension, the  husband  had  recurrent  requirements 
to  be  indulged  in  order  that  his  life  might  pursue  its 


IN  THE  WOODS  119 

way  with  the  least  possible  excitement.  The  whole 
thing  was  an  ordained  and  prescriptive  business,  like 
a  soldier's  drill  or  a  patient's  diet;  nor  did  she  seem 
to  realize  that  there  was  no  room  for  real  love  in  her 
conception  of  their  relationship,  no  sweet  enchant- 
ment, no  exaltation. 

Then,  again,  he  was  very  much  disappointed  that 
Dolly  had  no  wish  to  have  a  child  of  her  own.  She 
had  explained  to  him  early  in  their  married  life  how 
her  doctor  had  told  her  there  would  be  the  greatest 
possible  danger  for  her  in  motherhood;  but  it  had 
not  taken  Jim  long  to  see  that  a  combination  of  fear, 
selfishness  and  vanity  were  the  true  causes  of  her 
disinclination  to  maternity.  She  was  always  afraid 
of  pain  and  in  dread  of  death;  she  always  thought 
first  of  her  own  comfort;  and  she  was  vain  of  her 
youthful  figure. 

These  two  facts,  that  she  asserted  herself  as  his 
wife  and  that  she  shunned  parenthood,  combined 
to  produce  a  condition  of  affairs  which  offended 
Jim's  every  instinct.  In  these  matters  men  are  so 
often  more  fastidious  than  women,  though  the  popu- 
lar pretence  is  to  the  contrary;  and  in  the  case  of 
this  unfortunate  marriage  there  was  an  appalling 
contrast  between  the  crudity  of  the  angel-faccd  little 
wife  and  the  delicacy  of  the  hardy  husband. 

A  further  trouble  was  that  she  regarded  marriage 
as  a  dualit)'  incompatible  with  solitude  or  with  any 
but  the  most  temporary  separation.  One  would 
have  thought  that  she  had  based  her  interpretation 
of  the  conjugal  state  upon  some  memory  of  the 
Siamese  Twins.  When  Jim  was  writing  verses  in 
the  study — an  occupation   which,   by  the  way,   she 


I20  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

endeavoured  to  discourage — she  would  also  want 
to  write  there;  when  he  was  entertaining  a  male 
friend  she  would  enter  the  room,  and  refuse  to 
budge — not  because  she  liked  the  visitor,  but  because 
she  must  needs  assert  her  standing  as  wife  and  as 
partner  of  all  her  husband's  amusements;  when  he 
went  into  Oxford  or  up  to  London  she  would  inc'.st 
on  going  too;  even  when  he  was  talking  to  the  gar- 
dener she  would  come  up  behind  him,  slip  her  arm 
through  his,  and  immediately  enter  the  conversation. 

At  first,  when  he  used  to  tell  her  that  he  was 
going  alone  into  Oxford  to  have  a  drink  and  a  chat 
in  the  public  room  at  one  of  the  hotels,  she  would 
burst  into  tears,  or  take  offence  less  liquid  but  more 
devastating.  Later  she  accused  him  of  an  intrigue 
with  a  barmaid,  and  went  into  tantrums  when  in 
desperation  he  replied:  "No  such  luck."  For  the 
sake  of  peace  he  found  it  necessary  at  last  to  give  up 
all  such  excursions  except  when  they  were  unavoid- 
able, and  gradually  his  life  had  become  that  of  a 
prisoner. 

She  carried  this  assertion  of  her  wifely  rights 
to  galling  and  intolerable  lengths.  She  would  look 
over  his  shoulder  when  he  was  writing  letters,  and 
would  be  offended  if  he  did  not  let  her  do  so,  or  if 
he  withheld  the  letters  he  received.  On  two  or 
three  occasions  she  had  come  to  him,  smiling  inno- 
cently, and  had  handed  him  some  opened  envelope, 
and  had  said:  "Fm  so  sorry,  dear;  I  opened  this 
by  mistake.     I  thought  it  was  for  me." 

He  could  keep  nothing  from  her  prying  eyes; 
and  yet,  in  contrast  to  this  curiosity,  she  showed 
no  interest  whatsoever  in  his  life  previous  to  his 


IN  THE  WOODS  121 

marriage,  a  fact  which  indicated  clearly  enough  that 
her  concern  was  solely  in  regard  to  her  relationship 
with  him,  and  was  not  prompted  by  any  desire  to 
enter  into  his  personality.  At  first  he  had  wanted 
to  tell  her  of  his  early  wanderings;  but  she  had 
been  bored,  or  even  shocked,  by  his  narrations,  and 
had  told  him  that  his  adventures  did  not  sound  very 
"nice."  Thus,  though  now  she  watched  his  every 
movement,  she  had  no  idea  of  his  early  travels, 
nor  knew,  except  vaguely,  what  lands  he  had  dwelt 
in,  nor  was  she  aware  that  in  those  days  he  had 
passed  under  the  name  of  Easton. 

Now  Jim  enjoyed  telling  a  story:  he  was,  in  fact, 
a  very  interesting  and  vivacious  raconteur;  and  he 
felt,  at  first,  sad  disappointment  that  his  roaming 
life  should  be  regarded  as  a  subject  too  dull  or  too 
unrespectable  for  narration.  "It's  a  funny  thing," 
he  once  said  to  himself,  "but  that  girl,  Monime,  at 
Alexandria  knows  far  more  about  me  than  my  own 
wife,  and  I  only  knew  her  for  a  few  hours  1" 

And  then  her  poses  and  affectations !  He  dis- 
covered early  in  their  married  life  that  her  offers 
to  teach  the  cook  her  business,  or  to  knit  him  waist- 
coats, were  entirely  fraudulent.  She  had  none  of 
the  domestic  virtues — a  fact  which  only  troubled 
him  because  she  persisted  in  seeing  herself  in  the 
role  of  practical  housewife:  he  had  no  wish  for  her 
to  be  a  cook  or  a  sewing  woman.  She  went  through 
a  phase  in  which  she  pictured  herself  as  a  sun- 
bonneted  poultry-farmer.  She  bought  a  number 
of  Rhode  Island  Reds  and  Buff  Orpingtons;  she 
caused  elaborate  hen-houses  to  be  set  up;  and  she 
subscribed  to  various  poultry  fanciers'  journals.   But 


122  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

it  was  not  many  weeks  before  the  pens  were  derelict 
and  their  occupants  gone.  For  some  months  she 
played  the  part  of  the  Lady  Bountiful  to  the  village, 
and  might  have  been  seen  tripping  lown  the  lanes 
to  visit  the  aged  cottagers,  a  basket  on  her  arm. 
This  occupation,  however,  soon  began  to  pall,  and 
her  apostacy  was  marked  by  a  gradual  abandon- 
ment of  the  job  to  the  servants.  Later  she  had 
attached  herself  to  the  High  Church  party  in  Ox- 
ford, and  had  added  new  horrors  to  the  state  of 
wedlock  by  regarding  it  as  a  mystic  sacrament.  .   .   . 

The  most  recent  of  her  phases  had  followed  on 
from  this.  She  had  asked  Jim  to  allow  her  to  bring 
to  the  house  the  orphaned  children  of  a  distant 
relative  of  her  mother's:  two  little  girls,  aged  four 
and  five.  "It  will  be  so  sweet,"  she  had  said,  "to 
hear  their  merry  laughter  echoing  about  this  old 
house.  It  will  be  some  compensation  for  my  great 
sorrow  in  not  being  allowed  to  have  babies  of  my 
own." 

Jim  had  readily  consented,  for  he  was  very  fond 
of  children;  and  soon  the  mites  had  arrived,  very 
shy  and  tearful  at  first,  but  presently  well  content 
with  their  lot.  Dolly  declared  that  no  nurse  would 
be  necessary,  as  she  would  delight  in  attending  to 
them  herself,  and  for  two  weeks  she  had  played  the 
little  mother  with  diminishing  enthusiasm.  But 
the  day  speedily  came  when  help  was  found  to  be 
necessary,  and  now  a  good-natured  nursery-gov^ 
erness  was  installed  at  the  manor. 

Having  thus  regained  her  leisure,  she  bought  a 
notebook,  and  labelling  it  "The  Tiny  Tot's  Treas- 
ury," spent  several  mornings  in  dividing  the  pages 


IN  THE  WOODS  123 

into  sections  under  elaborate  headings  written  in 
a  large  round  hand.  Jim  chanced  upon  this  book 
one  day — it  lay  open  upon  a  table — and  two  section- 
headings  caught  his  eye.     They  read: — 

Hands,  games  with  Toes,  games  with 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret?"  "This   little   pig  went   to 

"Pat-a-cake."  market." 

The  book  was  abandoned  within  a  week  or  two; 
but  the  recollection  of  its  futility,  its  pose,  remained 
in  Jim's  memory  for  many  a  day. 

The  presence  of  these  two  little  girls,  while  be- 
ing a  considerable  pleasure  to  Jim  in  itself,  had  been 
the  means  of  irritating  him  still  further  in  regard  to 
his  wife.  Sometimes,  when  she  remembered  it,  she 
would  go  up  to  the  nursery  to  bid  them  "good- 
night" and  to  hear  their  prayers;  and  when  he  ac- 
companied her  upon  this  mission  his  spontaneous 
heart  was  shocked  to  notice  how  her  attitude  to- 
wards them  was  dictated  solely  by  the  picture  in  her 
own  mind  which  represented  herself  as  the  ideal 
mother.  There  was  a  long  mirror  in  the  nursery, 
and,  as  she  caressed  the  two  children,  her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her  own  reflection  as  though  the 
vision  pleased  her  profoundly. 

And  then,  only  a  few  days  ago,  a  significant  oc- 
currence had  taken  place  which  had  led  to  a  painful 
scene  between  Dolly  and  himself.  One  morning 
at  breakfast  the  elder  of  the  two  little  girls  had 
told  him  that  she  had  had  an  "awfully  awful" 
dream. 

"It  was  all  about  babies,"  she  had  said,  and  then, 
pausing  shyly,  she  had  added:  "But  I  mustn't  tell 
you  about  it,  because  it's  very  naughty." 


124  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

He  was  alone  in  the  room  with  them  at  the  time, 
and  he  had  questioned  the  round-eyed  little  girl, 
and  had  eventually  extracted  from  her  the  startling 
information  that  on  the  previous  evening  Dolly 
had  been  telling  them  "how  babies  grew,"  but  had 
warned  them  that  it  would  be  naughty  to  talk  about 
it. 

He  was  furious,  and  when  his  wife  came  down- 
stairs at  mid-morning — she  always  had  her  break- 
fast in  bed — he  had  caught  hold  of  her  arm  and 
had  asked  her  what  on  earth  she  meant  by  talking 
in  this  manner  to  two  infants  of  four  and  five  years 
of  age. 

"It's  not  your  business,"  was  the  reply.  "You 
must  trust  a  woman's  instinct  to  know  when  to 
reveal  things  to  little  girls." 

*'Oh,  rot!"  he  had  answered,  angrily;  and  sud- 
denly he  had  put  into  hot  and  scornful  words  his 
interpretation  of  Dolly's  untimely  action.  "The  fact 
is,  your  motive  is  never  disinterested.  You  are  al- 
ways picturing  yourself  in  one  role  or  another.  You 
didn't  even  think  what  sort  of  impression  you  were 
making  on  the  minds  of  those  little  girls:  you  were 
only  play-acting  for  your  own  edification." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  had  stammered, 
shocked  and  frightened. 

"You  pictured  yourself,"  he  went  on,  with  bitter 
sarcasm,  "as  the  sweet  and  wise  mother  revealing 
to  the  wide-eyed  little  girls  the  great  secrets  of  Na- 
ture. I  suppose  some  Oxford  ass  has  been  lecturing 
to  a  lot  of  you  silly  women  about  the  duties  of 
motherhood,  and  you  at  once  built  up  your  foolish 
picture,  and  thought  it  would  make  a  charming  scene 


IN  THE  WOODS  125 

— the  gentle  mother,  the  two  little  babies  at  your 
knee,  their  lisping  questions  and  your  pure,  sweet  an- 
swer, telling  them  the  wonderful  vocation  of  woman- 
hood. And  then  you  went  upstairs  and  forced  it  on 
the  poor  little  souls,  just  to  gratify  your  vanity; 
but  afterwards  you  were  frightened  at  what  you 
had  done,  and  told  them  they  mustn't  speak  about 
It,  because  it  was  naughty.  Naughty! — Good  God! 
— That  one  word  has  already  sown  the  seed  of  cor- 
ruption in  their  minds.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

He  had  not  waited  for  her  reply,  but  had  left 
the  room,  and  had  gone  with  clenched  fists  into 
the  woods,  his  usual  refuge,  sick  at  heart,  and  ap- 
palled that  his  life  was  linked  to  such  a  sham  thing 
as  his  wife  had  proved  herself  to  be. 

He  had  longed  to  get  away  from  her,  away  from 
Eversfield,  back  to  his  beloved  high  roads  once 
more,  out  of  this  evil  stagnation;  and  all  the  while 
the  ponderous,  black-coated  creature  of  his  imagina- 
tion had  leered  at  him  and  stroked  him. 

When  next  he  saw  his  wife  he  had  found  her 
in  the  rock-garden  playing  a  game  with  the  two 
children,  as  though  she  were  determined  to  make 
him  realize  her  ability  to  enter  into  their  mental 
outlook.  "We  are  playing  a  game  of  fairies,"  she 
had  told  him,  evidently  not  desiring  to  keep  up  the 
quarrel.  "All  the  Howers  are  enchanted  people,  and 
the  rockery  there  is  an  ogre's  castle.  We're  having 
a  lovely  time." 

The  two  little  girls  actually  were  standing  staring 
in  front  of  them,  utterly  bored;  for  the  ability  to 
play  with  children   is  a  delicate   art  in  which  iew 


t^ 


126  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

"grown-ups"  are  at  ease.  But  Dolly,  as  she 
crouched  upon  the  ground,  was  not  concerned  with 
anybody  save  herself,  and  the  game  was  designed 
for  the  applause  of  her  inward  audience  and  for 
the  eye  of  her  husband,  and  not  at  all  for  the  en- 
tertainment of  her  charges. 

"Well,  when  you've  finished  I  want  you  to  come 
and  help  me  tidy  my  writing-table  and  tear  things 
up,"  he  had  said  to  the  children;  and  thereat  they 
had  asked  Dolly  whether  they  might  please  go  now, 
and  had  pranced  into  the  house  at  his  side,  leaving 
her  sighing  in  the  rock-garden. 

Thoughts  and  memories  such  as  these  paraded 
before  his  mind's  eye  as  he  sat  upon  a  fallen  tree 
trunk,  deep  in  the  woods.  The  afternoon  was  warm 
and  still,  and  the  leaves  which  fell  one  by  one  from 
the  surrounding  trees  seemed  to  drop  from  the 
branches  deliberately,  as  though  each  were  answer- 
ing an  individual  call  of  the  earth.  Sometimes  his 
heavy  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  shrill  note 
of  a  bird,  and  once  there  was  a  startled  scurry 
amongst  the  undergrowth  as  a  rabbit  observed  him 
and  went  bounding  away. 

The  wood  was  not  very  extensive,  but,  with  the 
surrounding  fields,  it  afforded  a  certain  amount  of 
shooting;  and  one  of  Jim's  tenants,  Pegett  by  name, 
who  lived  in  a  cottage  in  a  clearing  at  the  far  side, 
acted  as  a  sort  of  gamekeeper,  his  house  being  given 
to  him  free  of  rent  in  return  for  his  services. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  haze  of  a  windless 
twilight  had  gathered  in  the  distant  spaces  between 
the  trees  when  at  length  Jim  rose  to  return  to  the 
manor.     His  ruminations  had  led  him  to  no  very 


IN  THE  WOODS  127 

definite  conclusion,  save  only  that  he  had  made  a 
horrible  mistake,  and  that  he  must  adjust  his  life  to 
this  glaring  fact,  even  though  he  offend  Dolly's 
dignity  in  the  process. 

As  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence,  stretching 
his  arms  like  one  awaking  from  sleep,  he  was  sud- 
denly aware  of  the  sound  of  cracking  twigs  and  rust- 
ling leaves,  and,  looking  in  the  direction  from  which 
it  came,  he  caught  sight  of  the  red-faced  Pegett, 
the  gamekeeper,  emerging,  gun  in  hand,  from  behind 
a  group  of  tree-trunks.  The  man  ran  forward,  and 
then,  recognizing  him,  paused  and  touched  his  cap. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  breathing  heavily, 
"I'm  after  that  there  poaching  thief.  Smiley-face. 
'E's  at  it  again:  I  seen  'im  slip  in  with  'is  tackle. 
I  seen  'im  from  my  window." 

"He's  not  been  this  way,"  Jim  assured  him.  "I've 
been  sitting  here  a  long  time." 

"'E's  a  clever  'un!"  Pegett  muttered,  "but  I'll 
get  'im  one  'o  these  days,  sir,  I  will;  and  I'll  put  a 
barrel  o'  shot  into  'is  legs." 

"He's  not  quite  right  in  his  head,  is  he?"  Jim 
asked. 

"Oh,  'e's  wise  enough,"  the  man  replied;  "wise 
enough  to  get  'is  dinner  off  of  your  rabbits,  sir. 
That's  been  'is  game  since  'e  were  no  more'n  a  lad. 
And  never  done  an  honest  day's  work  in  'is  life." 

Smiley-face,  as  has  been  said,  was  generally  con- 
sidered to  be  half-witted;  but  on  the  few  occasions 
on  which  Jim  had  spoken  to  him  he  had  answered 
intelligently  enough,  not  to  say  cheekily,  though 
there  was  something  most  uncanny  about  his  con- 
tinuous smile.    Nobody  seemed  to  know  exactly  how 


128  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

he  lived.  He  slept  in  a  garret  in  a  lonely  cottage  be- 
longing to  an  aged  and  witch-like  woman  known  as 
old  Jenny,  and  it  was  to  be  presumed  that  he  did 
odd  jobs  for  her  in  return  for  his  keep;  but  she 
herself  was  a  mysterious  soul,  not  inclined  to  waste 
words  on  the  passer-by,  and  her  cottage,  which  stood 
midway  between  Eversfield  and  the  neighbouring  vil- 
lage of  Bedley-Sutton,  was  superstitiously  shunned 
by  the  inhabitants  of  both  places. 

Pegett  was  eager  to  track  down  the  malefactor, 
and  presently  he  disappeared  among  the  trees,  mov- 
ing like  a  burlesque  of  a  Red  Indian,  and  actually 
making  sufficient  noise  to  rouse  the  woods  for  a 
hundred  yards  around.  Jim,  meanwhile,  made  his 
way  towards  the  manor,  walking  quietly  upon  the 
moss-covered  path,  and  pausing  every  now  and  then 
to  listen  to  the  distant  commotion  caused  by  the 
gamekeeper's  efforts  to  break  a  silent  way  through 
the  brittle  twigs  and  crisp,  dead  leaves. 

He  had  just  sighted  the  gate  which  led  from  the 
wood  to  the  lower  part  of  the  garden  of  the  manor 
when  his  eye  was  attracted  by  the  swaying  of  the 
upper  branch  of  an  oak  a  short  distance  from  the 
path.  He  paused,  wondering  what  had  caused  the 
movement,  which  had  sent  a  shower  of  leaves  to 
the  ground,  and  to  his  surprise  he  presently  dis- 
cerned a  man's  foot  resting  upon  it,  the  remamder 
of  his  body  being  hidden  behind  the  broad  trunk. 
He  guessed  immediately  that  he  had  chanced  upon, 
and  treed.  Smiley-face,  and,  having  a  fellow  feeling 
for  the  poacher,  he  called  out  to  him,  quite  good- 
naturedly,  to  come  down.  He  received  no  answer, 
however;  and  going  therefore  to  the  foot  of  the  oak. 


IN  THE  WOODS  129 

he  looked  up  at  the  man,  who  was  now  hardly  con- 
cealed, and  again  addressed  him. 

"It's  no  good  pretending  to  be  a  woodpecker, 
Smiley-face,"  he  said.  "Come  down  at  once,  or 
I'll  shy  a  stone  at  you." 

Smiley-face  was  a  youngish  man,  with  dirty  red 
hair,  puckered  pink  skin,  and  a  smile  which  extended 
from  ear  to  ear.  His  nose  was  snub,  and  his  eyes 
were  like  two  sparkling  little  blue  beads,  cunning 
and  merry.  He  now  thrust  this  surprising  counte- 
nance forward  over  the  top  of  a  branch,  and  stared 
down  at  Jim  with  an  expression  of  intense  relief. 

"Lordee! — it's  the  Squire,"  he  muttered.  "You 
did  give  I  a  fright,  sir:  I  thought  it  was  Mr.  Pegett 
with  'is  gun.  Shoot  I  dead,  'e  said  he  would.  'E 
said  it  to  my  face,  up  yonder  at  the  Devil's  Cross- 
roads:  would  you  believe  it?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me  he'd  let  you  have  an  ounce  of 
small  shot,  but  only  in  the  legs  of  course." 

"Ool"  said  Smiley-face.  "And  me  that  tender, 
what  with  thorn  and  nettle  and  the  midges." 

"You'd  better  come  down,"  Jim  advised.  "He's 
after  you  now;  and  you  can  see  I  myself  haven't 
got  my  gun  with  me,  or  I'd  pepper  you  too." 

The  man  descended  the  tree,  talking  incoherently 
as  he  swung  from  branch  to  branch.  Presently  he 
dropped  to  the  ground  from  one  of  the  lower 
boughs,  and  stood  grinning  before  Jim,  a  dirty, 
ragged  creature  without  a  point  to  commend  him. 

"Fairly  cotchcd  I  am,"  he  declared.  "But  I  knows 
a  gen'l'man  wlicn  I  sees  un.  I  knows  when  it's  safe 
and  when  it  baint.  If  I  was  to  run  now,  d'you 
reckon  you  could  catch  I,  sir?" 

For   answer  Jim's   lean    arm   shot   out,    and   his 


130  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

hand  gripped  hold  of  the  handkerchief  knotted 
around  the  man's  neck.  Smiley-face  swung  his  fist 
round,  but  the  blow  missed;  and  Jim,  who  had  learnt 
a  trick  or  two  from  a  little  Jap  in  California,  tripped 
him  up  with  ease,  and  the  next  moment  was  kneeling 
up©n  his  chest. 

"What  about  that,  Smiley-face?"  he  asked,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Wonderful !"  replied  the  poacher.  "I  should 
never  ha'  thought  it." 

Jim  rose  to  his  feet.  "Get  up,"  he  said,  "and 
let  me  hear  what  you've  got  to  say  for  yourself." 
Then,  as  the  man  did  as  he  was  bid,  he  added:  "If 
Pegett  comes  along,  you  can  slip  through  that  gate 
and  across  my  garden.     Nobody  will  see  you." 

Smiley-face  grinned.  "Thank'ee  kindly,  sir,"  he 
said,  touching  his  forelock.  "I  knew  you  was  a  kind 
gen'l'man." 

"Oh,  cut  that  out,"  Jim  replied  sharply.  "What 
d'you  mean  by  going  after  my  rabbits?" 

"O  Lordee!  Be  they  yours?"  Smiley-face 
scratched  his  red  head. 

"You  know  very  well  they  are.  I  own  this  place, 
don't  I?" 

"And  the  rabbits,  too?" 

"Well,  of  course!" 

"I  reckon  they  don't  know  it,  sir,"  Smiley-face 
muttered,  still  grinning  broadly. 

"Don't  be  an  idiot,"  said  Jim. 

The  poacher  held  up  his  forefinger  as  though  in 
reproach.  "I'm  a  poor  man,  me  lord,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"You're  a  thief." 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Smiley-face  with  assurance. 
"Poachers  isn't  thieves,  your  highness." 


IN  THE  WOODS  131 

'Well  they're  viy  rabbits." 

"But  I'm  a  poor  man,"  the  other  repeated. 

"So  you  said,"  Jim  answered.  "That's  no  ex- 
cuse." 

Smiley-face  shook  his  head.  "You  wouldn't  be 
like  to  understand  a  poor  man — not  with  a  big  'ouse, 
and  'undreds  o'  rabbits,  you  wouldn't." 

"Oh,  wouldn't  I!"  said  Jim.  "I've  been  poor 
myself.  I've  known  what  it  is  not  to  have  a  cent  in 
the  world.  I've  slept  in  hedges;  I've  tramped  the 
roads.   ..." 

''You  'ave?"  The  poacher  was  incredulous,  and 
thrust  his  head  forward,  staring  at  his  captor  with 
cunning  little  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  Jim  declared. 

"Lordee!"  exclaimed  Smiley-face.  "Then  you 
know  ..." 

"Know  what?"  asked  Jim. 

The  man  made  a  non-committal  gesture.  "It's 
not  for  me  to  say  what  you  know,  your  worship. 
But  you  do  know." 

Jim  made  an  impatient  movement.  "Look  here 
now,  if  I  let  you  go  this  time  will  you  promise  not 
to  do  it  again?" 

Smiley-face  shook  his  head,  and  again  touched  his 
forelock.  "Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that,  sir.  It's  tre- 
menjus  sport;  and  old  Jenny  she  do  cook  rabbit  fine, 
sir;  and  eat  un,  too.  Don't  be  angry,  your  high- 
ness," he  added  quickly,  as  Jim  turned  threaten- 
ingly upon  him. 

"Don't  keep  calling  me  'your  highness'  and  'my 
lord.'     I'm  a  plain  man,  the  same  as  you." 

"So  you  be,  sir,"  the  other  smiled.  "You've 
walked  the  roads;  you've  lain  out  o'  nights.     You 


132  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

know.  And  now  you're  a-askin'  o'  I  not  to  poach  1 
Oh,  you  can't  do  that,  sir.  ..." 

*'Well,  supposing  I  give  you  permission  to  poach 
every  now  and  then?"  Jim  suggested. 

"What? — and  tell  Mr.  Pegett  not  to  shoot  I 
dead?    Oh,  no;  there  wouldn't  be  no  sport  in  that." 

Jim  held  out  his  hand.  "Look  here.  Smiley-face," 
he  said.  "You  seem  to  be  pulling  my  leg,  but  I 
rather  like  you.     Let's  be  friends." 

The  man  drew  back.  "Well,  I  don't  'xactly  'old 
with  friends,  sir.     FViends  laughs  at  friends." 

Nevertheless,  he  grasped  the  proffered  hand. 

"Nonsense,"  Jim  replied.  "Friends  are  people 
who  stand  by  one  another  through  thick  and  thin. 
Friends  are  people  who  have  something  in  common 
which  they  both  defend.  You  and  I  have  something 
in  common,  Smiley-face." 

"And  what  be  that?"  the  man  asked. 

"Why," 'laughed  Jim,  "we're  both  up  against  it. 
We're  both  failures  in  life,  tramps  by  nature.  As 
you  say,  we  both  know^ 

Smiley-face  stared  at  him,  not  altogether  under- 
standing his  words. 

"You'd  better  come  across  the  garden  with  me 
now,"  said  Jim. 

The  poacher  shook  his  head.  "No,  sir,  I  reckon 
I'll  bide  'ere,  and  go  back  through  the  woods." 

"But  Pegett's  there  with  his  gun." 

Smiley-face  grinned.  "  'E'll  not  get  I,  never  you 
fear!" 

Jim  turned  and  walked  towards  the  gate;  and 
presently  his  friend  the  poacher  moved  stealthily 
away  into  the  gathering  dusk,  and  soon  was  lost 
amongst  the  trees. 


Chapter  X:    THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER 

IT  must  be  my  laziness,"  Jim  muttered  to  him- 
self, as  he  came  meandering  down  the  lane  after 
a  long  rambling  walk  around  Ot  Moor,  and 
through  the  woods  on  the  far  side.  It  was  spring 
once  more,  and  the  third  anniversary  of  his  marriage 
had  gone  by. 

His  remark  was  made  in  answer  to  his  reiterated 
question  as  to  why  he  had  not  sooner  broken  away. 
He  heartily  disliked  any  kind  of  "scene,"  and,  being 
a  fatalist,  he  had  preferred  to  "let  things  rip,"  as  he 
termed  it,  than  to  make  a  bid  for  that  freedom  which 
he  had  so  recklessly  abandoned.  It  was  true  that 
he  had  gone  up  to  London  more  frequently  of  late; 
but  any  longer  absences  from  home  had  caused  such 
an  intolerable  display  either  of  temper  or  of  femi- 
nine jobbery  on  Dolly's  part  that  Jim  had  found 
the  game  hardly  worth  the  candle. 

She  had  no  great  reason  to  be  jealous  of  her 
husband,  for  he  was  not  a  man  who  gave  much 
thought  to  women.  But  she  was  violently  jealous 
of  her  position  as  his  wife;  and  anything  which  sug- 
gested that  Jim  was  not  dependent  on  her  for  com- 
panionship, or  had  any  sort  of  existence  in  which 
she  played  no  part,  aroused  her  pique  and  Icil  her 
to  assert  herself  with  a  horrible  sort  of  assurance. 
Men  and  women  arc  capable  of  many  inelegances; 
but  there  is  nothing  within  the  masculine  range  so 
gross  as  a  silly  woman's  view  of  wedlock. 

133 


134  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Jim,  as  he  trudged  home  between  the  budding 
hedges  of  the  lane,  and  heard  the  call  of  the  spring 
reverberating  through  his  deadened  heart,  wished 
fervently  that  he  had  never  inherited  his  uncle's 
estate.  The  afternoon  was  warm,  and  the  power 
of  the  sun,  considering  the  time  of  the  year,  was 
remarkable.  It  beat  into  his  eyes,  and  its  bril- 
liance seemed  to  penetrate  into  his  brain,  compelling 
him  to  rouse  himself  from  his  shadowed  inaction, 
and  to  look  about  him. 

He  had  been  a  total  failure  as  a  married  man, 
and  as  a  Squire  his  success  had  been  negligible.  His 
only  real  friend  was  Smiley-face,  and,  though  they 
had  little  to  say  to  one  another,  there  was  always 
an  unspoken  understanding  between  them.  Real 
friendship  Is  occasioned  by  a  mutual  sympathy  which 
penetrates  through  that  external  skin  whereon  the 
artificialities  of  civilization  are  stamped,  and  reaches 
the  heart  within,  where  dwell  the  reason  behind 
reason,  the  intelligence  beyond  intellect,  and  the 
clear  "Yes"  which  masters  the  brain's  insistent 
"No."  Jim  and  the  poacher  understood  one  an- 
other; and  on  the  part  of  the  latter  this  understand- 
ing was  supplemented  by  gratitude,  for  it  chanced 
that  Jim  had  saved  him  on  one  occasion  from  arrest 
and  imprisonment.  The  circumstances  need  not  here 
be  related,  and  Indeed  they  would  not  be  pleasant  to 
recall;  for  Smiley-face  had  thieved,  and  Jim  had  lied 
to  save  him,  and  the  whole  affair  was  highly  preju- 
dicial to  law  and  public  safety. 

Often,  when  he  was  bored,  he  would  go  down 
into  the  woods  and  utter  a  low  whistle,  like  the  hoot 
of  an  owl,  which  had  become  his  recognized  signal 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER      135 

for  calling  Smiley-face;  and  together  they  would 
prowl  about,  sometimes  even  poaching  on  other 
property  beyond  the  lane  which  curved  around  the 
manor  estate.  'This  whistle  had  been  heard  more 
than  once  by  villagers  walking  in  the  lane,  and  the 
story  had  gone  about  that  the  place  was  haunted,  a 
rumour  which  Jim  encouraged,  since  it  deterred  the 
ever-nervous  Dolly  from  following  him  into  its 
shadowed  depths. 

Besides  this  disreputable  friendship,  there  was 
little  comradeship  for  him  in  Eversfield.  A  few  of 
the  villagers  liked  him  he  believed,  especially  the 
children;  but  the  majority  of  the  inhabitants  mis- 
understood him,  and  there  were  those  who  regarded 
him  with  marked  hostility.  The  gipsies  who  camped 
on  Ot  Moor,  however,  found  in  him  a  valuable 
friend;  and  the  tramps  and  wandering  beggars  who 
visited  these  parts  never  went  empty  from  his  door. 

Presently,  as  he  rounded  a  corner,  he  encountered 
one  of  those  who  disliked  him  in  the  person  of  Mrs. 
Spooner,  the  doctor's  wife,  who  was  riding  towards 
him  on  her  bicycle.  Dazzled  by  the  sun  in  his  eyes, 
he  stepped  to  one  side — the  wrong  side,  to  give  her 
room,  but  unfortunately  she  turned  in  the  same  di- 
rection and  only  avoided  a  collision  by  applying  her 
brakes  with  vigour  and  alighting  awkwardly  in  the 
rough  grass  at  the  roadside. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Jim,  raising  his  hat. 

She  was  a  fiery,  sandy-haired  little  woman,  who 
always  reminded  him  of  an  Irish  terrier;  and  her 
weather-beaten  face  was  wrinkled  with  anger  as 
she  answered  him.  "/  was  on  my  proper  side,"  she 
barked;  "but  I  don't  suppose  it  has  ever  occurred  to 


136  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

you  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  Rule  of  the 
Road." 

Jim  was  taken  aback.  "I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he 
repeated.     "I'm  afraid  I've  made  you  angry." 

"Angry  I"  she  snapped.  "It's  no  good  being  angry 
with  you;  it  makes  no  impression.  And,  besides,  a 
doctor's  wife  has  to  learn  to  keep  her  temper.  And 
then,  again,  you're  my  landlord,  and  one  mustn't 
quarrel  with  one's  landlord." 

"Am  I  a  bad  landlord?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  you're  not  exactly  attentive,"  she  snarled, 
showing  her  teeth.  "But  then  you  don't  seem  to 
understand  English  ways.  You  haven't  much  idea 
of  obligation,  have  you?  When  those  little  girls 
of  yours  were  ill  you  ignored  my  husband  and  sent 
for  an  Oxford  doctor.  That  was  hardly  polite,  was 
it?" 

"Oh,  that's  the  trouble,  is  it?"  said  Jim.  "I  say, 
I'm  awfully  sorry  .  .   ." 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture.  "No,  that's 
only  an  example  of  the  sort  of  thing  you  do.  It's 
your  behavior  in  general  we  all  object  to.  You 
haven't  got  a  friend  in  the  place,  except  the  village 
idiot." 

"You  mean  Smiley-face?"  he  queried. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  still  allowing  her  anger  to  give 
rein  to  her  tongue.  "Smiley-face,  the  thief  and 
poacher.  He  loves  you  dearly :  he  nearly  knifed  Ted 
Barnes  the  other  day  for  saying  what  he  thought  of 
you.     I  congratulate  you  on  your  champion!" 

"Now,  what  have  I  done  to  Ted  Barnes?"  Jim 
asked.    Ted  was  the  postman. 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER      137 

"That  wretched  little  Dachs  of  yours  bit  him," 
she  replied,  "and  you  didn't  so  much  as  inquire." 

"It's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,"  said  Jim.  "And, 
anyway,  it's  my  wife's  dog,  not  mine." 

"Oh,  blame  it  on  to  your  wife,"  she  sniffed.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  the  poor  dear  soul  has  to  take 
the  blame  for  everything.     It's  very  unfair  on  her." 

This  was  staggering,  and  Jim  stared  at  her  with 
mingled  anger  and  astonishment  in  his  dark  eyes. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  we  can  all  guess  what  she  suffers,"  she 
said.  "Only  last  week  she  nearly  cried  in  my 
house.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  needn't  think  she  gave  away 
any  secrets,  the  poor  little  angel.  She  said  herself 
*a  wife  must^  make  no  complaints.'  She's  the  soul 
of  loyalty.    But  we're  not  blind,  Mr.  West." 

Jim  scratched  his  head.  "And  all  this  because  I 
nearly  collided  with  your  bicycle  !"  he  mused. 

Mrs.  Spooner  pulled  herself  together.  "It's  the 
last  straw  that  breaks  the  camel's  back,"  she  growled. 
"But  I  suppose  I'm  putting  my  foot  into  it  as  usual. 
I'll  say  no  more."  And  therewith  she  mounted  her 
bicycle  and  rode  off  with  her  nose  in  the  air.  Had 
she  possessed  a  tail  it  would  have  appeared  as  an 
excited  stump,  sticking  out  from  behind  the  saddle, 
and  vibrating  with  the  thrill  of  battle. 

Jim  walked  homewards  feeling  as  though  he  had 
been  bitten  in  several  places.  "What  is  wrong  with 
me?"  he  muttered  aloud.  He  was,  of  course,  aware 
that  he  had  not  been  sociable;  for  the  rank  and 
fashion  of  Eversfield  and  its  ncight^ourhood  com- 
bined the  dreary  conservatism  of  I-'nglish  country 
life  with  the  intellectual  affectations  of  Oxford;  and 


138  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

Oxford,  as  the  Master  of  Balllol  once  said,  repre- 
sented "the  despotism  of  the  superannuated,  tem- 
pered by  the  epigrams  of  the  very  young."  But  he 
had  always  thought  that  he  had  something  in  com- 
mon with  Ted  Barnes  and  his  friends;  for  he  had 
overlooked  the  fact  that  village  opinion  is  still  dic- 
tated in  England  by  the  "gentry." 

The  realization  was  presently  borne  in  on  him 
that  Dolly,  failing  to  play  with  any  success  the  part 
of  the  indispensable  wife  and  helpmate,  had  as- 
sumed the  role  of  martyr,  and  had  confided  her  fic- 
titious sorrows  to  her  neighbours.  It  was  a  bitter 
thought;  and  he  slashed  at  the  hedges  with  his  stick 
as  it  took  hold  of  his  mind. 

He  determined  to  tax  her  with  this  new  delin- 
quency at  once;  but  when  he  reached  the  manor  he 
found  her  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  with  Mr. 
Merrivall,  the  tenant  of  Rose  Cottage,  who  was 
lying  back  in  an  armchair,  smoking  a  fat  cigar  which 
Dolly  had  evidently  fetched  for  him  from  the  cabinet 
in  the  study. 

George  Merrivall  was  a  mysterious  bachelor  of 
middle  age,  whom  Jim  could  not  fathom.  He  had 
a  heavy,  grey  face;  a  weak  mouth;  round,  fish-like 
eyes,  which  looked  anywhere  but  at  the  person  be- 
fore him;  and  thin  brown  hair,  smoothed  carefully 
across  a  central  area  of  baldness.  He  had  lived  at 
Rose  Cottage  for  the  last  ten  years  or  more,  and 
was  in  receipt  of  a  monthly  cheque,  which  might 
be  interpreted  as  coming  from  some  person  or  per- 
sons who  desired  his  continued  rustication. 

There  was  nothing  against  him,  however,  save 
that  after  the  receipt  of  each  of  the  cheques  he  was 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER      139 

said  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  cottage  for  a  few  days, 
and  the  belief  was  general  that  at  such  times  he 
was  dead  drunk.  This,  however,  might  be  merely 
gossip;  and  his  housekeeper,  Jane  Potts,  was  a 
woman  of  such  extremely  secretive  habits  that  the 
truth  was  not  likely  to  be  known.  Some  people 
thought  that  she  was,  or  had  been,  his  mistress;  but 
if  this  were  true  this  secret,  likewise,  was  well  kept. 
He  appeared  to  be  a  man  of  studious  habits,  a  judge 
of  pictures,  a  collector  of  rare  books,  and  a  regular 
church-goer. 

Dolly  had  made  his  acquaintance  before  she  had 
met  Jim,  and,  since  their  marriage,  he  had  been 
one  of  the  few  frequent  visitors  at  the  manor.  Jim, 
however,  did  not  like  him  or  trust  him,  thinking 
him,  indeed,  somewhat  uncanny;  and  he  now 
greeted  him  with  no  enthusiasm. 

"Hullo,  Squire,"  drawled  the  visitor,  without  ris- 
ing from  his  chair.  "Been  out  tramping  as  usual? 
You  look  as  though  you'd  been  sleeping  under  a 
hedge!" 

"James,  dear,"  said  Dolly,  "you  really  do  look 
very  untidy.  And  you're  all  covered  over  with  bits 
of  twigs  and  things." 

"Yes,"  said  Jim,  wishing  to  shock.  "I've  been 
having  a  roll  in  the  grass." 

Merrivall  laughed.  "Who  with,  you  young 
rascal?"  he  said,  pointing  at  him  with  the  wet, 
chewed  end  of  his  cigar. 

Dolly  tlrew  in  her  breath  quickly,  and  stared 
with  round  eyes  at  her  friend,  and  then  witii  a  sus- 
picious frown  at  her  husband.  "Where  have  you 
been?"  she  asked  deliberately. 


140  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

**0h,  nowhere  in  particular,"  he  answered. 
"Have  a  drink,  Merrivall?" 

"Thanks,"  the  other  replied.  "Whisky  and 
water  for  me." 

Jim  rang  the  bell;  and  presently,  excusing  him- 
self by  saying  that  he  must  change  his  clothes,  left 
the  room. 

Now,  anyone  who  had  seen  him,  five  minutes 
later,  as  he  walked  across  the  garden,  would  have 
thought  him  entirely  mad;  for  he  was  carrying  his 
guitar  across  his  shoulder,  drum  uppermost,  and 
his  stealthy  step  might  have  suggested  that  he  was 
about  to  use  it  as  a  weapon  with  which  to  bash  in 
the  head  of  some  lurking  enemy. 

Actually,  however,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  strum- 
ming upon  this  instrument  when  his  nerves  were  on 
edge;  and,  indeed,  there  was  a  melancholy  charm 
in  his  playing,  and  a  still  greater  in  his  singing.  But 
to-day  his  desire  thus  to  relieve  his  feelings  was 
accompanied  by  an  anxiety  not  to  be  overheard  by 
his  wife  or  Merrivall.  Moreover,  the  twilight  out- 
side was  as  warm  and  mellow  as  a  summer  evening, 
whereas  the  interior  of  the  manor  was  grey  and 
dismal.  He  had  therefore  indulged  an  impulse,  and 
was  now  slinking  off,  like  a  sick  dog,  to  his  beloved 
woods  to  bay  to  the  rising  moon. 

Passing  through  the  gates  at  the  end  of  the  lower 
garden,  where  the  hedges  of  gorse  in  full  flower 
formed  a  golden  mass,  he  entered  the  silent  shadow 
of  the  trees;  and  for  some  distance  he  pushed  for- 
ward between  the  close-growing  trunks  until  he  had 
reached  a  favourite  resort  of  his,  where  there  was 
a  fallen  oak  spanning  a  little  stream.    Here,  through 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER      141 

a  cleft  in  the  trees,  he  could  see  the  moon,  nearly 
at  its  full,  rising  out  of  the  violet  haze  of  the  eve- 
ning; and  as  he  sat  down,  with  his  legs  dangling 
above  the  murmuring  water,  he  listened  in  silence  to 
the  last  notes  of  a  thrush's  nesting-song  that  pres- 
ently died  away  into  the  hush  of  contented  rest. 

Around  him  the  silent  oaks  were  arrayed,  their 
boughs  extending  outwards  and  upwards  from  the 
gnarled  trunks  in  fantastic  shapes,  like  huge  claws 
and  fingers  and  probosces,  feeling  for  the  departed 
sunlight.  Little  leaves  were  just  beginning  to  ap- 
pear upon  the  branches,  and  here  and  there  beneath 
them,  where  the  ground  was  free  of  undergrowth, 
bluebells  and  violets  appeared  amongst  the  dead 
bracken  and  foliage  of  last  year,  and  the  small  white 
wood-anemones  like  stars  were  scattered  in  profu- 
sion. The  primroses  were  nearly  over,  but  bracken 
shoots,  curled  like  young  ferns,  were  pushing  up 
through  the  brown  remnants  of  a  former  genera- 
tion; low-growing  creepers  and  brambles  were 
sprouting  into  greenness;  and  the  moss  and  grasses 
were  tender  with  new  life. 

Jim's  mood  was  melancholy,  but  not  sorrowful. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  his  heart  was  dead,  crushed 
flat  by  the  flabby  hand  of  that  leering  figure  which 
personified  domestic  life,  and  responded  not  to  the 
spring.  He  was  so  appallingly  lonely  that  if  there 
had  been  tears  within  him  they  now  would  have 
overflowed;  but  there  were  not.  He  had  no  self- 
pity,  no  desire  to  confide  his  misery  to  another,  no 
power,  it  seemed,  either  to  laugh  at  himself  or 
to  weep. 

For  three  long  years  he  had  carried  his  distress 


142  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

about  with  him  all  day  long,  had  gone  for  lonely 
walks  with  it,  had  sat  at  home  with  it,  had  slept 
with  it,  had  wakened  with  it.  At  first  he  had  ob- 
tained relief  from  within:  he  had  fallen  back  on 
his  own  mind's  great  reserves  of  inward  entertain- 
ment. But  now  he  was  no  longer  self-sufficient, 
self-supporting.  He  was  utterly  barren:  without 
emotion,  without  love,  without  the  power  to  write 
his  beloved  verses,  without  a  heart,  without  even 
despair.  He  had  always  been  capable  of  feeling 
sorrow  for,  and  sympathy  with,  the  griefs  of  others: 
he  wished  now  to  God  that  he  could  lament  over 
his  own;  but  even  lamentation  was  denied  him. 

Presently,  taking  up  his  guitar,  he  began  to  sing 
the  first  song  that  came  to  his  head.  It  was  an  old 
Italian  refrain  to  which  he  had  set  his  own  words; 
and  so  softly  did  the  strings  vibrate  under  his  prac- 
tised fingers,  so  sorrowful  was  his  rich  voice,  that 
a  listener  might  have  imagined  him  to  be  a  love- 
lorn minstrel  of  Florence  in  the  forests  of  Fiesole. 
Yet  there  was  no  love  in  his  heart. 

He  sang  next  a  melancholy  negro  dirge,  and, 
after  a  long  silence,  followed  on  with  his  own 
setting  of  those  lines  from  Shelley's  Ode  to  the  West 
JVind,  which  tell  of  one  who,  looking  down  into 
the  blue  waters  of  the  bay  of  Baia?,  saw 

.  .  .  Old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 
All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them. 

As  he  sang  there  rose  before  his  inward  eye  a 
vision  of  the  sun-bathed  lands  through  which  he 
had  wandered  so  happily  in  the  past.    He  saw  again 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER      143 

the  white  houses  reflected  in  the  still  waters  of  the 
Mediterranean,  the  olive-groves  passing  up  the  hill- 
sides, the  hot  roads  leading  through  the  red-roofed 
villages,  and  the  dark-skinned  peasants  driving  their 
goats  along  the  mountain  tracks.  He  saw  the  lights 
of  the  city  of  Alexandria  twinkling  across  the  bay, 
and  heard  the  surge  of  the  breakers  beating  on  the 
rocks.  And  then,  quietly  and  vaguely,  out  of  the 
picture  there  came  the  serene,  mysterious  face  of 
a  woman,  a  face  he  had  thought  forgotten.  Her 
black  hair  drifted  back  into  his  recollection,  her  grey 
eyes  seemed  to  gaze  into  his,  and  in  his  inward  ear 
the  one  word  "Alonime"  reverberated  like  an  echo 
of  a  dream.  And  suddenly  a  door  seemed  to  open 
within  him,  and  with  an  overwhelming  onset,  his 
captive  emotions,  his  feelings,  his  long-forgotten 
joys  and  sorrows,  broke  out  from  their  prison  and 
surged  through  him. 

He  laid  his  guitar  aside,  and  for  a  while  sat 
wrapt  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  risen  from  the  grave:  it  was  as  though  his 
heart  had  come  back  to  life  within  him. 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  stood  for  a  moment, 
staring  up  at  the  moon,  his  fists  clenched  and  drum- 
ming upon  his  breast.  Then,  to  his  amazement,  he 
felt  his  eyes  filled  with  tears — tears  which  he  had 
not  shed  since  he  was  a  small  boy.  He  uttered  a 
laugh  of  embarrassment,  but  it  broke  in  his  throat, 
and  all  the  cynic  in  him  collapsed. 

Throwing  himself  upon  the  ground,  he  spread 
his  arms  out  bclore  him  and  burictl  his  face  in  the 
young  violets.  He  did  not  care  now  how  foolish 
nor   how   unmanly   liis   emotion   might   seem   to   be. 


144  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Here,  in  the  woods,  he  was  alone,  and  only  the  un- 
derstanding earth  should  receive  his  tears. 

For  some  time  he  lay  thus  upon  his  face;  but  at 
length  the  paroxysms  passed.  He  raised  his  head, 
and  as  he  did  so  he  became  aware,  intuitively,  that 
he  was  being  watched. 

"Who's  there?"  he  exclaimed,  staring  into  the 
surrounding  undergrowth. 

There  was  a  crackling  of  twigs,  and  a  moment 
later  Smiley-face  emerged  into  the  moonlight,  and 
stood  before  him,  touching  his  forelock. 

Jim  clambered  to  his  feet.  "What  the  hell  are 
you  doing  here?"  he  asked,  angrily.  He  was 
ashamed  that  he  had  been  observed,  and  the  colour 
mounted  threateningly  into  his  face. 

The  poacher  grinned.  "Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said. 
"I  heerd  you  singin',  and  I  came  to  listen.  And 
then  I  saw  you  was  in  trouble,  and  .  .  ."  He  took 
a  crouched  step  forward,  his  face  puckered  up, 
and  his  hands  twitching.  "Oh,  sir,  my  dear,  what 
be  the  matter?  Tell  I,  sir,  tell  I!"  His  voice  was 
passionately  insistent.  "Tell  I !  Don't  keep  it  from 
your  friend.  Friends  stick  to  one  another  through 
thick  and  thin — you  said  it  yourself,  sir :  them's  your 
werry  words,  what  you  said  when  we  shook  'ands. 
I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  sir,  I  would, 
so  'elp  me  God!  I'm  a  poacher,  and  maybe  I'm  a 
thief,  too,  like  you  said;  but  s'elp  me,  I  can't  see  you 
a'weeping  there  with  your  face  in  the  ground — I 
can't  see  that,  and  not  say  nothin'.  Tell  I,  my 
dear! — tell  your  friend.  If  it's  that  you've  lost  all 
your  money,  I'll  work  for  you,  sir.  I  don't  want  no 
wages.     If  it's  your  enemies,  say  the  word  and  I'll 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER      145 

kill  'em,  I  will.    I'd  swing  for  you,  and  gladly,  too." 

Jim  stared  at  him  In  amazement.  The  words 
poured  from  the  man's  lips  in  such  a  torrent  that 
there  could  be  no  question  of  their  boiling  sincerity. 
"Why,  Smiley-face,"  he  said  at  length,  "what  makes 
you  feel  like  that  about  me?     I  don't  deserve  it." 

Smiley-face  laughed  aloud.  "When  I  makes  a 
friend,"  he  replied,  "I  makes  a  friend.  You  done 
things  for  I  what  I  can't  tell  you  of.  You're  the 
first  man  as  ever  treated  I  fair;  and  now  you're 
breaking  your  'eart,  and  you're  letting  it  break  and 
not  tellin'  nobody.  Tell  I,  sir,  tell  I,  my  dear,  I'm 
askin'  you,  please." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  smiled  Jim,  putting  his 
hand  on  his  friend's  tattered  shoulder.  "It's  only 
that  people  like  you  and  me  are  failures  in  life.  We 
don't  seem  to  fit  in  with  English  ways.  I  suppose 
I  got  thinking  too  much  about  other  lands,  about 
the  old  roads,  and  the  sea,  and  the  desert,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  But  you  wouldn't  understand: 
you've  never  been  far  away  from  Eversfield,  have 
you?" 

He  sat  down  and  motioned  Smiley-face  to  do  like- 
wise. 

"Tell  I  about  them  places,  sir,"  said  the  poacher, 
"like  what  you  sings  about."  Instinctively,  and 
without  reasoning,  he  knew  that  a  long  talk  was  the 
best  remedy  for  his  friend;  and  gradually,  by  care- 
ful questioning,  he  launched  him  forth  upon  distant 
seas,  and  led  him  to  speak  of  countries  far  away 
from  the  catalepsy  of  his  present  existence. 

Jim  spoke  of  the  winding  roads  which  lead  up  to 
the  hills  of  Ceylon,  where  the  ground  is  covered  with 


146  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

little  crimson  blossoms  of  the  Laritana,  and  where 
the  peacocks,  sitting  in  rows  by  the  wayside,  utter 
their  wild  cries  as  the  bullock-bandies  go  lurching  by, 
and  the  monkeys  swing  from  tree  to  tree,  chattering 
at  the  travellers.  He  spoke  of  the  Aroe  Islands, 
where,  once  a  year,  the  pearl  merchants  are  gath- 
ered; and  he  pictured  in  words  the  scene  at  night  on 
the  still  waters  when  every  kind  of  craft  is  afloat, 
and  every  kind  of  lantern  sways  under  the  stars  in 
the  warm  breath  of  the  wind. 

Thence  his  memory  leapt  over  the  seas  to  the 
southern  coasts  of  Italy,  where,  upon  a  hot  summer's 
night,  the  little  harbour  of  Brindisi  was  gay  with 
lanterns  in  like  manner,  and  the  sound  of  mandolins 
floated  across  the  water;  while  the  narrow  streets 
were  thronged  with  townspeople  takmg  the  air  after 
the  heat  of  the  day.  Later,  he  wandered  to  the 
slopes  of  Lebanon,  where  clear  rivulets  rush  down 
from  the  hills,  through  thickets  of  oleander,  and 
tumble  at  last  into  the  blue  Mediterranean.  He 
spoke  of  mulberry  orchards,  and  open  tracts  covered 
with  a  bewildering  maze  of  flowers  and  flowering 
bushes:  poppies,  broom,  speedwell,  lupin,  and  many 
another,  so  that  the  hillsides,  overhanging  the  sea, 
are  dazzling  to  the  eyes. 

And  so  he  came  to  Egypt  and  the  desert,  and  told 
of  the  jackal-tracks  which  lead  back  from  the  Nile 
Into  the  barren,  mysterious  hills,  where  a  man  may 
lose  himself  and  die  of  thirst  within  a  mile  or  two 
of  hidden  wells;  where  the  mirage  rises  like  a  lake 
from  the  parched  sand,  and  lures  the  thirsty 
traveller  to  his  doom;  and  where  the  vultures  circle 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER     147 

in  the  blue  heavens,  waiting  for  the  men  and  the 
camels  who  fall  and  lie  still. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  talking  thus,  while  the 
moon  rose  above  the  trees;  but  at  length  the  chill  of 
the  air  reminded  him  that  he  ought  to  be  returning  to 
the  manor,  and,  picking  up  his  guitar,  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  Smiley-face,  however,  did  not  move.  He  was 
staring  in  front  of  him,  his  two  hands  thrust  into 
the  grass. 

"Come  along,"  said  Jim.  "I  must  go  back  to  the 
house  now." 

The  poacher  looked  up  at  him  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression upon  his  face.  "Reckon  you  baint  agoin' 
to  tell  I  what  your  trouble  is,  sir,"  he  smiled. 

Jim  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered.  "I 
can't  talk  about  it,  somehow.  But  I'll  tell  you  this, 
Smiley-face:  if  I  ever  do  talk  to  anybody  about  it 
all  it'll  be  to  you." 

When  he  reached  the  manor,  Jim  found  that  he 
was  late  for  dinner;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
he  was  confronted  by  Dolly,  who  was  much  annoyed 
at  seeing  him  still  in  his  day  clothes. 

"Oh,  James!"  she  exclaimed,  angrily.  "Where 
have  you  been?  Dinner  has  already  been  kept  back 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  you." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  quite  im- 
possible. Don't  wait  for  me:  I'll  be  down  in  a  few 
minutes." 

"Don't  hurry,"  she  replied,  icily.  "Mr.  Merrivall 
is  going  to  dine  with  us.     I  shan't  be  lonely." 


Chapter  XI:     THE  DEPARTURE 

FOR  three  years,  for  three  Interminable  years, 
Jim  had  borne  the  stagnation  of  his  married 
life  at  Eversfield,  the  door  of  his  heart  shut 
against  the  whispering  voices  which  bade  him  turn 
his  back  on  his  heritage  and  come  out  into  the  free 
world  once  more.  But  now  matters  had  reached  a 
psychological  crisis.  Something  had  happened  to 
him;  something  had  opened  the  door  again.  And  as 
he  sat  In  his  room  that  night  these  voices  seemed  to 
assail  him  from  all  sides,  enticing  him  to  leave 
England,  coaxing  him,  wheedling  him,  jeering  at  him 
for  his  lack  of  enterprise,  and  persuading  him  with 
the  pictured  delights  of  other  lands. 

"Give  It  up!"  they  murmured.  "You  were  never 
meant  for  this  sort  of  thing:  you  can  never  find  hap- 
piness here.  Think  of  the  sound  of  the  sea  as  it 
slaps  the  bow  of  the  outbound  liner;  think  of  the 
throb  of  the  screw;  think  of  the  noisy  boatloads  sur- 
rounding the  ship  when  the  anchor  has  rattled  into 
the  transparent  water  of  a  southern  harbour;  the 
familiar  sound  and  smells  of  hot  little  towns,  shelter- 
ing under  the  palms;  the  soft  crunch  of  camels'  pads 
upon  the  desert  sands;  the  far-off  cry  of  the  jackals. 
Think  of  the  unshackled  life  of  the  happy  wanderer; 
the  freedom  from  the  restraint  of  the  Great  Sham; 
the  absence  of  these  posings  and  pretences  of  so- 
called  respectability.     Give  it  up,  you  fool;  and  take 

148 


THE  DEPARTURE  149 

your  lazy  body  over  the  hills  and  far  away:  for  your 
lost  content  awaits  you  beyond  the  horizon,  and 
it  will  never  come  back  to  you  in  this  stagnant  val- 
ley." 

Until  late  in  the  night  he  allowed  his  thoughts  to 
wander  in  forbidden  places,  and  when  at  last  he 
sought  comfort  in  sleep,  his  dreams  were  full  of 
far-away  things  and  alluring  scenes.  In  the  early 
morning  he  lay  awake  for  an  hour  before  it  was 
time  to  take  his  bath;  and  through  the  open  window 
the  sound  of  the  chimes  from  the  distant  spires  of 
Oxford  floated  into  the  room. 

"Confound  those  blasted  bells!"  he  cried,  sud- 
denly springing  from  his  bed.  "They  have  drugged 
me  long  enough.  To-day  I  am  awake :  I  shall  sleep 
no  more !" 

Of  a  sudden  he  formed  a  resolution.  He  would 
go  away  alone  for  two  or  three  months,  in  spite  of 
any  protest  which  his  wife  might  make.  And  not 
only  would  he  take  this  single  holiday:  he  would  lay 
his  plans  so  that  there  should  be  another  scheme  of 
existence  to  which,  in  the  future,  he  could  retire 
whenever  his  home  became  unbearable.  His  uncle 
had  led  a  double  life:  he,  too,  would  do  so;  not, 
however,  in  the  company  of  any  Emily,  but  in  the  far 
more  alluring  society  of  that  Lady  called  Liberty. 
James  Tundcring-Wcst,  Squire  of  Eversficld,  from 
henceforth  should  be  subject  to  perennial  eclipses, 
and  at  such  times  Jim  Easton,  vagrant,  should  be 
resuscitated. 

He  would  sell  out  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds' 
worth  of  stock,  and  generously  place  it  as  a  first 
instalment  to  the  credit  of  Jim  I*'aston  in  another 


150  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

part  of  the  world;  and  nobody  but  himself  should 
know  about  it.  For  the  last  three  years  he  had  lived 
mainly  on  his  rent-roll,  and  this  should  remain  the 
means  of  subsistence  of  his  wife,  and  of  himself  so 
long  as  he  was  in  England.  But  the  bulk,  of  the  re- 
mainder of  his  fortune  left  of  late  almost  untouched, 
should  gradually  be  transferred,  little  by  little,  to 
the  credit  of  the  wanderer. 

At  breakfast  he  was  so  enthralled  with  his  scheme 
that  he  paid  no  attention  whatsoever  to  Dolly's  of- 
fended silence.  He  told  her  that  he  was  going  to 
London  for  a  few  days,  and  that  very  possibly  he 
would  there  make  arrangements  to  go  abroad  for  a 
holiday. 

"As  you  please,"  she  replied,  coldly.  "I,  too, 
need  a  change;  but  I  can't  play  the  deserter.  I 
must  stay  here,  and  try  to  do  my  duty." 

Driving  into  Oxford  he  turned  the  matter  over 
in  his  mind  unceasingly,  and  in  the  train  he  thought 
of  little  else,  nor  so  much  as  glanced  at  the  news- 
papers he  had  brought.  The  difficulty  was  to  think 
out  a  means  whereby  he  could  now  place  this  capital 
sum  to  the  account  of  Jim  Easton,  and  later  add  to 
it,  without  using  his  cheque  hook  or  any  bank  notes 
which  could' be  traced;  for  all  the  salt  would  be  gone 
out  of  the  proposed  enterprise  if  his  recurrent 
change  of  personality  were  open  to  detection.  He 
wanted  to  be  able  to  say  to  Dolly  each  year:  "I  am 
going  away,  and  I  shall  be  back  about  such-and-such 
a  date,  until  then  I  shall  not  be  able  to  be  found, 
nor  troubled  in  any  .way  by  the  exigencies  of  domes- 
tic life." 

At  length,  as  he  reached  the  hotel  where  he  was 


THE  DEPARTURE  151 

going  to  stay,  the  simple  solution  came  to  him;  and 
so  eager  was  he  to  put  the  plan  into  execution  that 
he  was  off  upon  the  business  so  soon  as  he  had  de- 
posited his  dressing-case  in  the  bedroom.  In  South 
Africa  he  had  become  an  expert  in  the  valuation  of 
diamonds,  and  now  he  proposed  to  put  this  knowl- 
edge to  use.  He  knew  the  addresses  of  two  or  three 
dealers  who  supplied  the  trade  with  unset  stones; 
and  to  these  he  made  his  way,  with  the  result  that 
during  the  afternoon  he  had  selected  some  twenty 
small  diamonds  which  were  to  be  held  for  him  until 
his  cheques  should  be  forthcoming. 

The  business  was  resumed  next  day;  and  by  the 
following  evening  he  had  depleted  his  capital  by 
two  thousand  pounds,  and  in  its  place  he  held  a  little 
boxful  of  diamonds  which,  so  far  as  he  could  tell, 
were  worth  considerably  more  than  he  had  paid  for 
them.  These  stones  he  proposed  to  sell  again,  prac- 
tically one  by  one,  in  various  foreign  cities,  deposit- 
ing the  proceeds  in  the  name  of  Jim  Easton  at  some 
bank,  say  in  Rome;  and,  as  all  the  jewels  were  of 
inconspicuous  size  and  small  value,  his  dealings 
would  not  be  able  to  be  traced  beyond  the  original 
purchases  in  London,  even  if  so  far  as  that. 

Before  returning  to  Oxford  he  decided  to  pay 
a  call  on  Mrs.  Darling  to  invite  her  to  go  down  to 
stay  at  Eversficld  during  his  absence.  He  regarded 
her  as  a  capable,  good-natured,  and  entirely  unprin- 
cipled woman;  and  she  had  invariably  shown  him 
that  at  any  rate  she  liked  him,  if  she  were  not  always 
proud  of  him.  As  a  mother-in-law  she  had  been 
extraordinarily  circumspect,  and,  in  fact,  she  had 
effaced  herself  to  a  (]uitc  unnecessary  extent,  seldom 


152  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

coming  to  stay  at  the  manor,  but  preferring  to  pass 
most  of  her  time  at  her  little  flat  in  London. 

She  was  at  home  when  he  called,  and  greeted  him 
with  affection,  good-temperedly  scolding  him  for 
not  writing  to  her  more  often. 

"You  might  have  peaceably  passed  away,  for  all 
I  knew,"  she  said. 

Jim  smiled.  "Oh,  I  think  Dolly  would  have  men- 
tioned it,  if  I  had,"  he  replied.  He  gazed  around 
the  room:  it  was  always  a  source  of  profound  aston- 
ishment to  him.  The  walls  were  silver-papered,  the 
woodwork  was  scarlet,  the  furniture  was  of  red 
lacquer,  the  carpet  was  grey,  and  the  chairs  and  sofa 
were  upholstered  in  grey  silk,  ornamented  with  much 
silver  fringe  and  many  tassels  of  silver  and  scarlet. 
Upon  the  walls  were  a  dozen  Bakst-like  paintings  of 
women  displaying  bits  of  their  remarkable  anatomy 
thro-ugh  unnecessary  apertures  in  their  tawdry  gar- 
ments; and  as  Jim  stared  at  them  he  was  devoutly 
thankful  that  Mrs.  Darling  had  not  robed  herself  in 
like  manner. 

She  followed  the  direction  of  his  gaze.  "Hide- 
ous, aren't  they?"  she  said. 

"They  are,  rather,"  he  replied.  "Why  do  you 
have  them?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  she  answered,  "so  many  mil- 
liners and  dressmakers  come  to. see  me  in  connection 
with  my  monthly  fashion  articles;  and  they  would  of 
course  think  nothing  of  my  taste  if  I  had  any  really 
nice  pictures  on  my  walls." 

She  dived  behind  the  sofa  and  rose  again  with 
her  hands  full  of  a  medley  of  startling  nightgowns. 

"Look  at  these  I"  she  laughed.     "They  were  left 


THE  DEPARTURE  153 

here  for  me  to  criticise  by  a  shop  which  calls  itself 
'Frocks,  Follies,  and  Fragrance.'  Horrible,  aren't 
they?  The  only  nice  thing  about  them  is  their  ex- 
quisite material.  I  always  say  to  all  young  married 
women :  'Flannel  nightgowns  may  keep  you  warm, 
but  crcpe-de-Chine  will  keep  your  husband." 

Jim  stared  at  the  wildly  coloured  garments  long 
and  thoughtfully.  "I  sometimes  thijik,"  he  said  at 
length,  "that  women  have  no  sense  of  humour." 

"No  more  has  Nature,"  she  replied.  "Look  at 
the  camel."  She  changed  the  conversation.  "Tell 
me,"  she  said,  "how  is  Dolly?" 

"Top  hole,  thanks,"  he  replied. 

"I  notice,"  Mrs.  Darling  remarked,  as  they  sat 
down  together  on  the  big  sofa,  "that  you  don't 
bring  her  to  Town  with  you  nowadays.  I  hope 
you're  not  leading  a  double  life?" 

"No,"  he  answered. 

"That's  right,"  she  said.  "That's  a  good  boy! 
Have  you  taken  to  drink  yet?" 

Jim  laughed.     "No,  why  should  I?" 

"Most  married  men  do,"  she  told  him.  "My  own 
husband  did.  Fie  never  really  showed  it;  but  Fve 
seen  him  get  up  the  morning  after,  turn  on  a  cold 
bath,  drink  it,  and  go  to  bed  agaiji." 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Jim,  "I  am 
thinking  of  breaking  loose  for  a  bit.  That's  really 
what  Fve  come  to  see  you  about.  I  want  your 
advice." 

"Advice!  Advice  from  w^?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Why,  my  dear  boy,  my  advice  on  domestic  affairs 
would  be  worth  about  as  much  as  the  figure  o  with- 
out its  circumference-line." 


154  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

"Well,  not  your  advice  exactly,  but  your  help. 
The  fact  is,  I  want  to  get  away.  I've  grown  flat 
and  stale  down  at  Eversfield,  and  I  think  Dolly  finds 
me  rather  a  bore  sometimes.  I  have  an  idea  that  it 
would  do  us  both  a  lot  of  good  if  1  were  to  go  off 
for  a  bit  by  myself." 

Mrs.  Darling  looked  anxiously  at  him,  and  her 
jesting  manner  left  her  for  a  moment.  "I  hope 
nothing  has  gone  wrong  between  you?"  she  said 
earnestly. 

Jim  hastened  to  assure  her.  "Oh,  no,  every- 
thing is  quite  all  right." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  she  replied.  "But  I  know 
Dolly  is  rather  exacting." 

"It's  my  own  fault,"  he  remarked,  quickly.  "I 
must  be  quite  impossible  as  a  husband." 

Mrs.  Darling  uttered  an  exclamation  of  distress. 
"Oh,  then  there  is  something  wrong?"  she  said.  "I 
thought  so,  from  the  tone  of  her  letters." 

Jim  was  embarrassed.  "No,  I  only  want  to  get 
away  because  I'm  not  very  well,  and  also  because 
I  want  to  polish  up  some  old  verses  of  mine." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  "My  dear  boy," 
she  said,  "if  you've  lost  your  trousers,  it's  no  good 
putting  on  two  coats.  If  you're  unhappy  at  home, 
it's  no  good  kidding  yourself  with  other  reasons  for 
getting  away." 

"I  assure  you  .   .  ."  Jim  began. 

She  interrupted  him.  "Come  on,  now — what 
d'you  want  me  to  do?  D'you  want  me  to  persuade 
Dolly  to  let  you  go?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered.  "I  am 
going  anyhow.     What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  keep 


THE  DEPARTURE  155 

an  eye  on  her  while  I'm  gone.  Take  her  away  for 
a  holiday,  if  you  like:  Til  gladly  pay  all  expenses. 
Keep  her  amused." 

"How  long  to  you  intend  to  be  away?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  a  couple  of  months  or  so,"  he  replied.  "I 
don't  exactly  know  .   .   ." 

She  turned  to  him,  searchingly.  "Is  it  another 
woman?" 

"No,  no,"  .he  laughed.  "I  dislike  women  in- 
tensely." 

"Thank  you!"  she  smiled.  "On  behalf  of  my 
daughter  and  myself,  thank  you!"  She  was  silent 
for  a  while.  "I  wonder  why  you  ever  married?" 
she  said,   at  length. 

"We  all  have  our  romances,"  he  answered, 

"Romances!"  She  uttered  the  word  with  bit- 
terness. "What  is  romance?  Just  Nature's  fig- 
leaf.  It  is  something  that  Youth  employs  to  dis- 
guise something  else.  Youth  is  a  calamity.  I  really 
sometimes  thank  Heaven  for  middle  age  and  old 
age:  they  bring  one  at  any  rate  the  blessing  of  in- 
difference.    I'm  thankful  that  I'm  an  old  woman." 

"You're  not  old,"  Jim  replied.  "You  don't  look 
forty.    And  you're  in  the  pink  of  health." 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "I've  nothing  much  to 
complain  of  in  that  respect.  All  I  want  is  a  new 
pair  of  legs  and  a  clean  heart   .   .   ." 

"Oh,  your  heart's  all  right,"  he  told  her,  putting 
his  hand  on  hers. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I'm  a  bad  old  woman.  I 
earn  a  living  by  writing  indecently  about  women's 
clothes,  and  how  to  wear  them  so  as  to  destroy  men's 


156  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

virtue.  I  sit  about  in  night-clubs;  I  play  cards  on 
Sundays;  I'll  dine  with  anybody  on  earth  who'll  give 
me  a  good  dinner  and  a  bottle  of  wine;  and  I  never 
go  to  church.  What  d'you  think  Eversfield  would 
say  to  that?" 

"Oh,  Eversfield  be  hanged,"  ne  replied,  with  feel- 
ing. "You're  a  good  sort,  and  you're  kind.  That's 
better  than  all  the  rotten  respectability  of  Evers- 
field." 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  said.  "Respectability  has 
its  merits.  You  go  and  spend  a  few  weeks  with  the 
sort  of  people  I  mix  with,  and  you'll  find  Miss 
Proudfoote  of  the  Grange  like  a  breath  of  fresh 
air." 

"I'm  sure  I  shouldn't,"  Jim  answered  with  con- 
viction. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  presently  their 
conversation  turned  in  other  directions. 

When  at  length  he  rose  to  go,  he  startled  her 
by  remarking  that  he  would  not  see  her  again  until 
his  return  from  his  travels;  and  to  her  surprised 
question  he  replied  that  he  was  going  down  to  Ox- 
ford next  morning,  and  that  on  the  following  day 
he  would  set  out  on  his  wanderings. 

She  looked  anxiously  at  him  once  more.  "There 
isn't  any  real  quarrel  between  you  and  Dolly,  is 
there?"  she  asked  again. 

He  reassured  her.  "No,  none  at  all.  It's  only 
that  I  have  a  craving  for  Italy  .   .   ." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "if  you  live  in  a  thatched  house, 
don't  start  letting  off  Roman  candles." 

"What  d'you  mean?"  he  laughed. 

"I  mean,"  she   replied.      ".   .   .   Oh,  never  mind 


THE  DEPARTURE  157 

what  I  mean.  Don't  go  the  pace,  and  don't  stay 
away  too  long;  or  there'll  be  trouble.  Don't  forget 
that  you've  got  a  tradition  to  keep  going.  Don't 
forget  your  uncle's  tombstone.  What  does  it  say? 
— 'A  man  who  nobly  upheld  the  traditions  of  his 
race.   .   .   .'" 

"Yes,  isn't  it  rot?"  he  answered.  "Do  you  know 
I  came  across  some  of  his  letters,  and  I  can  tell  you 
his  respectability  was  only  skin-deep.  All  his  life 
he  lived  a  lie,  and  now  he  lies  in  his  grave,  and  his 
epitaph  lies  above  him." 

She  took  his  proffered  hand  in  hers  and  held  it 
for  a  moment.  "Jim,  my  boy,"  she  said,  "I'm  only 
a  wicked  old  woman;  but  I've  got  a  great  respect  for 
virtue,  even  when  it's  only  skin-deep.  It's  the  peo- 
ple who  don't  care  what  their  neighbours  say  who 
come  to  grief." 

When  Jim  returned  to  Oxford  and  broke  the  news 
of  his  immediate  departure  to  Dolly,  she  received  it 
with  a  calmness  which  he  had  not  expected.  He 
had  anticipated  a  painful  scene,  and  he  was  even  a 
little  disappointed  that  she  fell  in  so  readily  with 
his  plans. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "If  you've  made  up  your  mind 
to  go,  it's  no  good  hanging  about  here.  You've 
been  finding  rather  a  lot  of  fault  with  me  lately. 
Perhaps  when  you  are  alone  you  will  appreciate  all 
I've  done  for  you." 

"Of  course  I  shall,  dear,"  he  replied. 

Quietly,  and  in  a  very  business-like  manner,  she 
asked  him  what  arrangements  he  had  made  about 
the  money  she  was  to  draw;  and  this  being  settled 


158  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

to  her  satisfaction  she  approached,  with  apparent 
diffidence,  a  more  important  subject. 

"I  do  hope  you  aren't  going  to  any  dangerous 
places,"  she  said.     "You  mustn't  take  any  risks." 

He  assured  her  that  he  had  no  intention  of  doing 
so. 

"But  supposing  anything  happened  to  you,"  she 
went  on,  "what  would  become  of  me?" 

"I'll  make  my  will,  if  you  like,"  he  laughed. 

She  uttered  a  gasp  of  horror.  "What  a  dreadful 
thought!"  she  murmured.  She  was  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  her  eyes  gazing  out  of  the  window,  her 
mouth  a  little  open.  Then,  without  looking  at  him, 
she  said:  "1  suppose  just  a  line  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  will  do?  You  only  have  to  say  that  you  leave 
everything  to  me  ...  at  least  I  take  it  that  there's 
nobody  else  to  leave  it  to?"  She  turned  to  him  with 
an  innocent  smile. 

"Oh,  no,  it's  all  yours  if  I  die,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  you'd  better  do  it  now  before  you  forget," 
she  said,  smiling  at  him  and  patting  his  hand.  She 
pointed  to  the  writing-bureau  in  the  corner  of  the 
room.  "You  just  scribble  it  on  a  half-sheet,  and 
seal  it  up,  and  write  on  the  envelope  'to  be  opened 
in  the  event  of  my  death,'  and  post  it  to  your  solici- 
tors.    That's  all." 

"You  seem  to  have  thought  it  all  out,"  he  laughed, 
going  to  the  bureau. 

"Oh,  James!"  she  exclaimed,  reproachfully. 
"What  dreadful  things  you  do  say !" 

His  departure  on  the  following  morning  was  un- 
ceremonious. In  spite  of  Dolly's  anxieties  in  regard 
to  his  safety,  the   fact  remained  that  he  was  only 


THE  DEPARTURE  159 

going  away  for  a  couple  of  months  or  thereabouts. 
He  was  to  take  but  a  single  portmanteau  with  him; 
his  precious  diamonds  were  to  be  carried  in  a  knot- 
ted handkerchief  in  his  pocket;  and  in  his  hand  he 
would  hold  only  a  stout  walking-stick.  The  only 
persons  who  appeared  to  be  concerned  at  his  going 
were  the  tw^o  little  girls;  and  even  they — as  is  the 
habit  of  children — returned  to  their  play  before  the 
carriage  had  left  the  door. 

Dolly  had  said  she  would  driv^  with  him  into 
Oxford  to  see  him  off  in  the  train;  but,  as  he  was 
to  depart  at  an  early  hour,  she  was  not  dressed  in 
time,  and  was  therefore  obliged  to  bid  him  "good- 
bye" at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  She  looked  a  pretty 
little  creature,  standing  there  in  a  pink  dressing- 
gown,  with  the  morning  sunlight  striking  upon  her 
fair  hair,  which  fell  around  her  shoulders,  as 
though  she  had  been  disturbed  in  the  act  of  comb- 
ing it,  and  with  a  background  of  the  dark  portraits 
of  previous  owners  of  the  manor.  In  her  hand  she 
was  carrying  a  large  bunch  of  apple-blossom,  which 
she  accounted  for  by  saying  that  she  had  just  been 
picking  it  from  outside  her  bedroom  window  at  the 
moment  when  he  called  out  to  her.  Knowing  her 
habit  of  studying  effects,  Jim  felt  sure  that  she  had 
thought  out  this  charming  picture,  and  had  never 
had  any  intention  of  accompanying  him  to  the  sta- 
tion; nor  had  he  the  heart  to  ask  her  why,  if  she 
had  but  now  plucked  the  blossom  from  the  tree, 
the  stems  should  be  dripping  with  water  as  though 
j'lst  lifted  from  a  vase. 

"Every  picture  tells  a  story,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self as  he  drove  away,  "and  some  tell  downright  lies." 


Chapter  XII:    THE  ESCAPE 

ON  his  arrival  in  Paris,  his  sensations  were 
not  far  removed  from  bliss;  but  soon  he 
was  obliged  to  set  about  the  tedious  busi- 
ness of  selling  his  diamonds,  one  by  one,  in  a  manner 
so  unobtrusive  and  anonymous  that  no  particular 
notice  should  be  paid  to  the  deals.  He  was  some- 
what disappointed  to  find  that,  in  spite  of  his  expert 
knowledge  both  of  the  stones  and  of  the  channels 
for  their  disposal,  he  failed  to  avoid  a  slight  loss  on 
the  various  transactions;  but  he  was  in  no  mood  to 
bargain,  and  he  was  well  content,  at  the  end  of  the 
second  day,  to  be  rid  of  a  quarter  of  his  collection, 
and  to  feel  the  notes,  which  were  to  be  the  support 
of  his  future  wanderings,  pleasantly  bulging  out  of 
his  pocket-book. 

From  Paris  he  proceeded  to  Lyons,  Marseilles, 
and  Monte  Carlo,  in  which  places  he  disposed  of  the 
remainder  of  his  collection,  this  time  at  a  small 
profit.  During  these  business  transactions  he  felt 
that  he  was  generally  regarded  as  a  thief,  and  more 
than  once  his  experiences  were  unpleasant;  but  he 
was  so  full  of  the  idea  of  hiding  his  tracks,  and  of 
building  up  once  more  the  old  life  of  freedom  beyond 
the  range  of  Dolly's  prying  eyes,  that  he  adopted, 
without  any  regard  to  his  natural  sensitiveness,  all 
manner  of  subterfuges  and  variations  of  name. 
At  length,  with  quite  an  unwieldy  packet  of  small 

i6o 


THE  ESCAPE  i6i 

notes,  he  made  his  way  along  the  coast,  crossed  the 
frontier,  being  still  under  his  real  name,  and  stopped 
at  Savona,  Genoa,  and  Spezia,  where  he  laboriously 
changed  the  money,  little  by  little,  into  Italian  cur- 
rency. He  then  proceeded  by  way  of  Pisa  to  Rome, 
where,  with  a  sense  of  almost  schoolboyish  exulta- 
tion, he  deposited  his  vagrant's  fortune  at  a  well- 
known  bank,  and  opened  an  account  in  the  name  of 
"James  Easton."  This  accomplished,  he  felt  that 
he  had  taken  the  first  firm  step  in  his  emancipation; 
for  in  future,  whenever  Eversfield  became  unbear- 
able, he  could  speed  over  to  Rome,  even  for  but  a 
month  at  a  time,  and,  moving  eastwards  or  south- 
wards from  this  base,  under  the  name  by  which  he 
had  formerly  been  known,  he  would  always  find 
money  at  his  disposal,  and  complete  freedom  from 
domestic  obligations. 

He  had  now  been  gone  from  England  some  four- 
teen days,  but  Rome  was  the  first  place  at  which 
he  had  assumed  this  other  name,  for  he  intended 
Italy  to  be  the  western  frontier  of  the  vagrant's  life. 
The  change  of  name  meant  far  more  to  him  than 
can  easily  be  realized:  it  had  a  psychological  effect 
upon  his  mind,  such  as,  in  a  lesser  degree,  can  some- 
times be  produced  by  a  complete  change  of  clothes. 
Pie  almost  hoped  that  he  would  be  recognized  and 
hailed  by  some  acquaintance  from  England  in  order 
that  he  might  look  him  deliberately  in  the  face  and 
say:  "I  am  afraid  you  have  made  a  mistake.  My 
name  is  Easton :  I  come  from  I''g>'pt." 

Having  assumed  this  alias  his  first  object  was 
to  recapture  the  old  beloved  sense  of  liberty  by 
resuming  his  wandering  existence,  and  by  turning  his 


i62  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

back  upon  the  elegances  of  life.  Under  the  name 
of  Easton,  therefore,  he  at  once  selected  a  small  inn 
in  the  democratic  Trastevere  quarter,  near  the  Ponte 
Sisto,  which  had  been  recommended  to  him  as  the 
resort  of  commercial  travellers  and  the  like  who 
desired  a  little  cleanliness  in  conjunction  with  moder- 
ate honesty  and  extreme  low  prices;  and  having  here 
deposited  his  portmanteau  and  engaged  a  room  for  a 
fortnight  hence,  he  went  at  once  to  the  railway  sta- 
tion with  nothing  but  a  knapsack  and  a  walking-stick 
in  his  hand  and  took  the  long  journey  back  to  Pisa, 
his  intention  being  to  wander  southwards  from  that 
point  along  the  beautiful  coast,  where  the  pine- 
woods  came  down  to  the  seashore. 

During  the  years  at  Eversfield  his  emotions  had 
dried  up,  and  he  had  become  barren  of  all  exalted 
thoughts.  He  was,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself, 
continuously  "off  the  boil."  But  now  once  more 
his  brain  was  galvanized,  and  all  his  actions  were 
intensified,  speeded  up,  and  ebullient.  His  power 
of  enjoyment,  lost  so  long,  had  come  back  to  him, 
and  now  not  infrequently  he  was  blessed  with  that 
fine  frenzy  which  had  left  his  mind  unvislted  these 
many  weary  months.  He  was  a  different  man  to- 
day: again  hot-blooded,  again  eager  to  listen  to  the 
lure  of  the  unattained,  again  capable  of  soaring,  as  it 
were,  to  the  sun  and  the  stars. 

Two  days  later  there  befell  him  an  adventure 
which  changed  the  whole  course  of  his  life. 

He  had  been  walking  all  day  through  the  pines 
and  along  the  beach,  and  in  the  late  afternoon  he 
inquired  of  a  passer-by  whether  there  were  any  vil- 
lage in  the  neighbourhood  where  he  might  spend  the 


THE  ESCAPE  163 

night.  The  man  replied  that  the  path  by  which  Jim 
was  going  led  to  a  small  fishermen's  inn,  where  a 
room  and  a  meal  were  generally  to  be  obtained,  but 
that  if  he  desired  to  reach  the  next  little  town  he 
would  have  to  retrace  his  steps  and  make  a  con- 
siderable detour,  for,  although  it  stood  upon  the 
seashore  only  three  kilometres  further  along,  it  could 
not  be  approached  by  the  beach,  owing  to  the  pres- 
ence of  a  wide  estuary.  The  day  having  been  ex- 
tremely hot,  Jim  was  tired,  and  he  therefore  decided 
to  try  his  luck  at  this  house,  which,  the  man  said,  was 
distant  but  ten  minutes'  walk. 

He  found  it  to  be  a  high,  square,  drab-washed 
building,  which  like  so  many  poorer  houses  in  Italy, 
gave  the  melancholy  suggestion  that  it  had  seen  bet- 
ter days.  The  red-tiled  roof  was  in  need  of  repair, 
the  green  shutters  were  falling  to  pieces,  and  there 
were  innumerable  cracks  and  small  dilapidations 
upon  its  extensive  areas  of  blank  wall.  The  only  in- 
dications that  it  was  an  inn  were  a  long  table  and  a 
bench  upon  one  side  of  the  narrow  doorway,  and  a 
number  of  crude  drawings  in  charcoal  upon  the  lower 
part  of  the  front  wall. 

The  house  stood  upon  a  mound  facing  the  beach, 
and  backed  by  the  dark  pines;  and  at  one  side  there 
was  a  patch  of  cultivated  ground  in  which  a  few 
vegetables  were  growing.  A  small  rowing-boat, 
moored  by  a  rope,  floated  upon  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  sea,  and  upon  a  group  of  rocks  near  by  two 
dark-skinned  fishermen  sat  smoking  cigarettes.  One 
of  these,  upon  seeing  Jim,  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
and  called  out  to  the  innkeeper,  who  replied  from 
some  empty-sounding  part  of  the  ground-floor,  and 


i64  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

presently  came  with  clamorous  footsteps  along  the 
stone-flagged  passage  to  the  door. 

He  was  a  tall,  stout  man,  with  a  two-days'  growth 
of  grey  stubble  covering  the  lower  part  of  his 
tanned  face,  and  an  untidy  mat  of  white  hair  upon 
his  head.  His  forehead  was  deeply  wrinkled,  and 
his  eyes  were  screwed  up  as  though  the  light  hurt 
him.  Had  he  changed  his  loose  corduroy  trousers 
and  his  collarless  striped  shirt  for  the  garb  of  his 
ancestors,  one  would  have  said  that  the  marble  Sulla 
of  the  Vatican  Museum  had  come  to  life. 

Jim  was  in  two  minds  as  to  whether  to  spend  the 
night  in  this  somewhat  forbidding  house,  or  to  pro- 
ceed upon  his  way;  and  he  therefore  asked  only  for 
a  bottle  of  wine,  at  the  same  time  inviting  his  host 
to  drink  a  glass  with  him.  The  man  accepted  the 
invitation  with  alacrity,  and,  disappearing  into  the 
echoing  house,  soon  returned  with  the  bottle.  He 
hesitated,  however,  before  drawing  the  cork,  and 
diflfidently  mentioned  the  price,  whereupon  Jim  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  forth  his  loose 
change.  The  wrinkles  deepened  on  the  man's  fore- 
head as  he  gazed  at  the  money,  and  an  expression 
of  disappointment  passed  over  his  face;  for  the  coins 
did  not  amount  to  the  sum  named.  Jim,  however, 
smilingly  reassured  him,  and  produced  his  roll  of 
notes,  from  which  he  selected  one,  asking  whether 
his  host  could  change  it.  At  this  the  man's  face 
showed  his  satisfaction,  and  he  hastened  to  uncork 
the  bottle,  thereafter  fetching  the  change  and  sitting 
down  to  enjoy  the  wine  with  every  token  of  brother- 
ly love. 

For  some  time  they  talked,  and  it  was  very  soon 


THE  ESCAPE  165 

apparent  that  the  innkeeper  was  of  the  braggart 
type.  He  had  once  been  in  the  army,  and  he  de- 
scribed with  great  gusto  his  gallant  exploits  and 
feats  of  arms,  relating  also  his  affairs  of  the  heart, 
and  telling  how  once  he  fought  a  duel  and  killed  his 
man  for  the  sake  of  a  girl  who  was  in  no  wise  wor- 
thy of  him.  Jim  listened  with  amusement,  and  pres- 
ently, in  answer  to  his  host's  questions,  he  explained 
that  he  himself  was  merely  a  mild  Englishman,  and 
that  he  was  walking  from  village  to  village  along 
the  coast  by  way  of  a  holiday.  This  statement  was 
received  with  frank  astonishment,  and  led  to  a  fur- 
ther series  of  inquiries,  to  which  Jim  replied  with 
amused  volubifity,  pointing  out  the  delights  of  a 
wandering  life,  and  speaking  of  the  pleasures  of  a 
state  of  incognito,  when  hearth  and  home  are  tem- 
porarily abandoned,  and  nobody  knows  whither  one 
has  disappeared.  The  innkeeper  listened  with  evi- 
dent interest,  looking  at  him  searchingly  from  time 
to  time  as  he  talked,  and  forgetting  to  boast  or  even 
drink  his  wine,  as  he  sat  with  folded  arms  and 
wrinkled  brow,  staring  out  to  sea. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  at  length  Jim  rose  to  his 
feet  to  consider  whether  he  should  proceed  or 
should  stay  the  night  where  he  was.  His  legs  felt 
weary,  however;  and  when  his  host  presently  made 
the  suggestion  that  he  should  inspect  the  guest- 
chamber  upstairs,  Jim  was  quickly  persuaded  to  do 
so,  and,  finding  it  quite  habitable,  at  once  decided  to 
remain  until  morning. 

The  innkeeper  tlicrcupon  retired  into  the  back 
premises  to  prepare  a  meal,  and  Jim  sauntered  down 
to  the  beach  to  enjoy  the  cool  of  the  dusk.     Climb- 


i66  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

ing  over  the  promontory  of  smooth,  rounded  rocks, 
to  one  of  which  the  rowing-boat  was  moored,  he 
pulled  the  little  craft  towards  him  by  its  rope,  and, 
scrambling  into  it,  sat  for  some  time  handling  the 
oars  and  gazing  down  into  the  water.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  ride  here  upon  the  gently  moving  swell, 
listening  to  the  quiet  surge  of  the  waves  upon  the 
shore,  and  watching  the  fading  colours  of  the  sky; 
and  when,  in  the  dim  light,  he  saw  his  host  appear 
at  the  doorway  of  the  house,  looking  about  him  for 
his  guest,  he  stepped  back  on  to  the  rocks  with  lazy 
reluctance. 

The  fare  presently  provided  in  the  front  room  was 
rough  but  appetizing,  and  when  the  meal  was  fin- 
ished he  returned  once  more  to  the  table  outside, 
where  he  found  his  host  seated  with  three  other  men, 
for  whom,  after  a  ceremonious  introduction,  Jim 
called  for  another  bottle  of  wine.  The  appearance 
of  these  other  guests,  however,  was  not  pleasant: 
they  looked,  in  fact,  as  disreputable  a  gang  of  cut- 
throats as  ever  sat  round  a  guttering  candle ;  and  once 
or  twice  he  thought  he  observed  upon  the  innkeep- 
er's face  an  expression  something  like  that  of  apol- 
ogy. 

Nevertheless,  the  party  remained  talking,  and 
their  host  continued  his  bragging,  far  into  the  night, 
for  it  seemed  that  all  of  them  were  to  sleep  at  the 
inn;  and  it  was  midnight  before  Jim  made  his  salu- 
tations and  was  lighted  up  to  his  room  by  the  owner 
of  the  house. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he  went  to  the  open 
window,  and  stared  out  into  the  darkness.  The  sky 
was  brilliant  with  stars  which  were  reflected  in  the 


THE  ESCAPE  167 

sea,  whose  rhythmic  sobbing  came  to  his  ears;  but 
he  could  only  dimly  discern  the  rocks  and  the  little 
rowing-boat,  and  the  line  of  the  beach  was  lost  in  the 
indigo  of  the  night.  For  some  time  he  stood  deep 
in  thought;  but  at  length,  of  a  sudden,  a  feeling  of 
apprehension  entered  his  mi^d,  and,  returning  into 
the  candlelight,  he  remained  for  a  while  irresolute 
in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  sensation,  however,  presently  passed;  but  in 
order  to  occupy  his  thoughts  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  an  unused  picture-postcard,  which  he  had 
purchased  on  the  previous  day,  and  performed  the 
much  postponed  duty  of  writing  a  line  to  his  wife, 
telling  her  shortly  that  he  was  well.  He  addressed 
the  card  to  her  and  laid  it  aside,  with  the  intention 
of  posting  it  at  some  obscure  village  whose  name 
upon  the  postmark  would  convey  nothing  to  Dolly. 
Then,  seating  himself  upon  the  side  of  the  bed,  he 
prepared  to  undress. 

As  he  stooped  to  unlace  his  boots  the  tremor  of 
apprehension  returned  to  him,  and  for  some  mo- 
ments he  sat  perfectly  still,  looking  at  the  candle, 
and  wondering  at  his  unfamiliar  nervousness.  "I 
suppose,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "I  have  been  too 
long  in  the  shelter  of  Eversfield,  and  have  grown 
unaccustomed  to  the  ordinary  circumstances  of  the 
wanderer's  life." 

Then,  like  a  sudden  flash,  the  recollection  came 
to  him  that  the  innkeeper  had  seen  his  roll  of  notes, 
and  that  the  man  knew  him  to  be  an  unattaclied 
wayfarer,  and  consequently  fair  game  for  robbery 
or  even  murder.  The  thought  set  his  heart  beating 
in    a   manner  whicli   shamctl    him;    and,   thoujih   he 


i68  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

fought  against  it  resolutely,  he  permitted  himself, 
nevertheless,  to  creep  over  to  the  door  and  to  slide 
the  clumsy  bolt  into  its  socket.  He  then  felt  in  his 
pocket  to  assure  himself  that  his  matches  were  at 
hand;  and,  having  placed  the  candle  by  his  bedside, 
he  blew  out  the  light  and  prepared  himself  for  an 
uncomfortable  night. 

For  some  time  he  lay  quietly  upon  the  bed,  fully 
dressed,  his  eyes  turned  to  the  open  window,  through 
which  the  brilliant  stars  were  visible;  but  at  length 
sleep  began  to  overcome  his  forebodings,  so  that  he 
dozed,  and  at  last  passed  into  unconsciousness. 

He  awoke  with  an  instant  conviction  that  some 
sound  had  disturbed  him;  and  for  a  moment  he  felt 
his  pulses  hammering  as  he  listened  intently.  The 
stars  had  moved  across  the  heavens  during  his  slum- 
bers, and  their  position  now  suggested  that  dawn 
was  not  far  off,  a  fact  of  which  he  was  profoundly 
glad,  for  his  mind  was  filled  with  a  very  definite 
kind  of  dread,  and  he  was  eager  to  be  up  and  away. 
Something,  he  was  convinced,  had  been  going  on 
while  he  slept:  he  could  feel  it,  as  it  were,  in  his 
bones. 

He  was  about  to  light  the  candle  when,  to  his 
extreme  horror,  he  caught  sight  of  a  man's  head 
slowly  rising  above  the  level  of  the  window-sill  and 
blotting  out  the  stars.  Jim  lay  absolutely  still,  des- 
perately concentrating  his  brains  to  meet  the  situa- 
tion; and  as  he  did  so  the  figure  outside  the  window, 
like  a  menacing  black  shadow,  stealthily  raised  itself 
until  the  arms  and  shoulders  were  visible,  and  he 
was  able  to  recognize  the  large  proportions  of  the 
innkeeper. 


THE  ESCAPE  169 

The  room  was  in  complete  darkness,  and,  realiz- 
ing that  he  himself  could  not  be  seen,  Jim  silently 
extended  his  hand  until  his  fingers  clasped  themselves 
around  the  brass  candlestick  at  his  side.  His  agita- 
tion gave  place  to  the  thrill  of  battle,  and,  with  a 
bound  like  that  of  a  wild  animal,  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  dashed  at  the  intruder.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  man  clambered  into  the  room;  and,  an  in- 
stant later,  the  two  were  in  contact, 

A  frenzied  blow  with  the  heavy  candlestick 
struck  the  innkeeper's  uplifted  arm,  and  the  knife 
which  he  had  been  carrying  fell  to  the  floor.  The 
man  darted  to  recover  it,  whereat  Jim  aimed  a  sec- 
ond blow  as  he  stooped;  but,  before  he  could  strike, 
the  innkeeper's  left  hand  crashed  into  his  face,  so 
that  he  staggered  back  across  the  room  with  the 
blood  pouring  from  his  nose.  Regaining  his  bal- 
ance, he  again  rushed  forward;  and  before  the  other 
could  raise  his  recovered  knife  the  candlestick  de- 
scended upon  his  head,  with  a  most  satisfactory  thud, 
and,  without  a  sound,  the  man  fell  in  a  heap  upon 
the  floor. 

For  a  moment  Jim  stood  over  him,  his  impro- 
vised weapon  raised  to  strike  again.  He  felt  the 
blood  streaming  from  his  nose,  and,  pulling  his 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  he  attempted  in  vain 
to  arrest  the  flow,  at  the  same  time  wondering  what 
next  he  should  do.  He  could  just  discern  the  dark 
outline  of  the  figure  at  his  feet,  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  movement,  and  he  wondered  whether  the 
man  were  dead.  At  the  moment  he  certainly  hoped 
so. 

Then,  sniffing  and  panting,  he  felt  for  his  matches 


I70  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

and  struck  a  light.  The  candle,  which  had  fallen 
from  its  socket,  lay  on  the  floor  before  him;  and 
this  he  now  lit,  replacing  it  in  the  brass  holder  which 
had  served  him  so  well.  Next,  he  glanced  out  of  the 
window,  and  saw,  as  he  had  expected,  a  ladder  lean- 
ing against  the  wall;  but,  though  he  could  now  hear 
voices  in  the  house,  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder,  so  far  as  the  darkness  permitted 
him  to  discern. 

This  appeared,  therefore,  to  be  the  best  means 
of  escape,  and,  snatching  up  his  hat  and  slinging  his 
knapsack  across  his  shoulder,  he  hastened  towards 
the  window.  As  he  did  so  the  figure  upon  the  floor 
showed  signs  of  returning  life,  and  Jim  hastily 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  man's  ugly-looking  knife, 
while  the  blood  from  his  nose  steadily  dripped  upon 
it,  upon  the  clothes  of  his  unconscious  assailant,  and 
upon  the  bare  boards. 

He  was  in  the  act  of  climbing  over  the  sill  when 
he  heard  voices  at  the  bedroom  door,  and  saw  the 
bolt  rattle.  At  this  he  slid  down  the  ladder  at  break- 
neck speed,  and  raced  through  the  darkness  as  fast 
as  his  legs  would  carry  him  towards  the  beach.  F  or 
a  moment  he  hesitated  upon  the  soft  sand,  recollect- 
ing that  in  the  one  direction — the  way  he  had  come 
yesterday — there  was  no  habitation  for  many  miles, 
while  in  the  other  the  estuary,  of  which  he  had 
been  told,  cut  him  off  from  the  neighbouring  town. 

Behind  him  he  heard  a  considerable  commotion 
in  the  house,  and  at  the  lighted  window  of  his  aban- 
doned bedroom  he  saw  a  figure  appear  for  a  mo- 
ment.     The  other  men,   then,   had   burst  into   the 


THE  ESCAPE  171 

room,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  would  doubtless 
be  after  him. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  the  rowing-boat,  and,  with 
a  gasp  of  relief,  he  ran  out  on  to  the  rocks.  Here 
he  slipped  and  fell,  thereby  losing  the  innkeeper's 
knife;  but,  with  hands  wet  with  the. blood  from  his 
nose,  he  clutched  at  the  boulders,  and  clambered  for- 
ward. A  few  minutes  later  he  had  lifted  the  boat's 
mooring-rope  from  the  rock  around  which  it  was 
fastened,  and  had  pushed  out  to  sea. 

For  some  minutes  he  rowed  at  his  best  speed 
away  from  the  land,  but  presently  he  rested  on  his 
oars  to  listen  to  the  cries  and  curses  which  came  over 
the  water  to  his  ears  out  of  the  darkness.  His 
mood  was  now  exultant,  for  he  had  observed  on  the 
previous  evening  that  there  was  no  other  craft  of  any 
kind  within  sight,  and  a  pull  of  two  or  three  kilo- 
metres would  bring  him  to  the  neighbouring  town. 
He  was  now  enjoying  the  adventure,  for  he  felt  that 
it  marked  the  breaking  of  the  long  monotony  of 
his  days  at  Eversfield  and  the  beginning  of  a  new  and 
more  vivid  existence,  far  removed  from  the  petty 
incidents  of  English  village  life.  He  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  shout  out  some  bantering  remark 
to  the  men  upon  the  beach  whom  he  could  not  see, 
and  soon  his  voice  was  sounding  across  the  dark 
water,  bearing  impolite  messages  to  the  innkeeper 
and  a  few  choice  words  for  themselves.  Their  oaths 
returned  to  him  out  of  the  night,  and  set  him  laugh- 
ing; and  presently  he  resumed  his  rowing  now  with 
a  less  frenzied  stroke,  heading  towards  tiie  three  or 
four  solitary  lights  which  marked  his  destination. 

And   thus,    as   the    first  light   of   dawn    appeared 


172  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

in  the  eastern  sky,  he  quietly  beached  the  little  boat 
upon  the  deserted  shore  in  front  of  the  houses,  and 
stepped  out  on  to  the  sand.  The  current  had  been 
running  strongly  against  him,  and  the  journey  had 
taken  him  longer  than  he  had  expected;  but  in  the 
cool  night  air,  under  the  glorious  stars,  he  had  found 
himself  thoroughly  happy,  and  his  excitement 
seemed  but  to  have  added  zest  to  his  life. 

A  troublesome  question,  however,  now  arose  in 
his  mind  as  to  whether  he  should  go  at  once  to  the 
police,  or  whether  it  would  be  wiser  to  keep  silent 
in  regard  to  his  adventure.  If  he  reported  the  mat- 
ter and  subsequently  had  to  appear  in  the  courts,  the 
pleasant  secret  of  his  double  identity  would  have  to 
be  revealed.  That  would  be  the  end  of  James 
Easton,  for,  in  the  limelight  which  would  be  turned 
upon  him,  he  would  be  obliged  to  admit  to  his  real 
name.  On  the  other  hand,  he  would  dearly  like  to 
bring  the  innkeeper  and  his  confederates  to  justice. 

He  now,  therefore  sat  down  upon  the  beach  in 
the  dim  light  of  daybreak  and  carefully  thought  the 
matter  out  in  all  its  aspects;  the  result  being  that 
at  length  he  very  reluctantly  decided  to  hold  his 
tongue,  and,  with  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  to  pro- 
ceed upon  his  way. 

Taking  off  his  boots  and  socks,  and  rolling  up  his 
trousers,  he  went  back  to  the  boat,  and,  wading 
into  the  water,  pushed  it  out  to  sea  with  all  his 
strength,  thereafter  watching  it  as  it  slowly  floated 
back  towards  the  estuary,  in  which  direction  the  cur- 
rent was  travelling.  He  then  went  over  to  a  cluster 
of  rocks,  behind  which  he  would  be  unobserved,  and 
there  he  opened  his  knapsack  and  made  his  toilet, 


THE  ESCAPE  173 

washing  the  crusted  blood  from  his  face  and  hands 
and  the  front  of  his  coat. 

When  he  emerged  at  length,  the  sun  had  risen; 
and  he  walked  into  the  little  town  in  an  entirely  in- 
conspicuous manner.  Here  he  presently  ascertained 
that  there  was  a  railway-station,  and  he  observed 
that  a  number  of  people  were  already  making  their 
way  thither  to  catch  the  early  market-train.  No- 
body took  any  notice  of  him  as  he  bought  his  ticket 
and  entered  the  compartment,  for  in  appearance  he 
differed  little  from  an  ordinary  Italian,  and  he  was 
not  called  upon  to  speak  at  sufficient  length  to  reveal 
any  faults  in  his  accent.  This  was  all  to  the  good, 
since  his  sole  object  now  was  to  leave. the  neighbour- 
hood of  his  adventure  in  order  to  preserve  the  secret 
of  his  double  life.  Thus  half  an  hour  later  he  was 
jogging  along  back  to  Pisa,  and  by  mid-morning  he 
was  on  his  way  to  Florence,  none  the  worse  for  his 
adventure,  and  having  suffered  no  loss  with  the  ex- 
ception of  his  walking-stick,  his  handkerchief,  a 
great  deal  of  blood,  and  much  of  his  confidence  in 
the  Italian  peasant. 

Arrived  at  Florence,  he  engaged  a  room,  in  the 
name  of  Easton,  at  a  small  and  quiet  hotel,  and  here 
he  decided  to  remain  for  the  next  few  days,  and  to 
forget  his  growing  indignation  against  the  murder- 
ous innkeeper,  since  no  redress  was  possible  without 
exposure  of  his  carefully  laid  plans.  His  amaze- 
ment and  agitation  may  thus  be  imagined  when,  on 
the  following  morning,  he  read  in  his  newspaper  that 
he  was  believed  to  have  been  murdered. 

The  account  was  circumstantial.  A  police  patrol, 
riding  along  the  beach  an  hour  before  dawn,  had 


174  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

come  upon  two  men  acting  in  what  was  described 
as  a  suspicious  manner  outside  the  inn.  Questions 
were  being  put  to  them  when  the  innkeeper  ap- 
peared at  a  window  and  shouted  out,  asking  whether 
their  victim  had  been  "finished  off."  This  led  to  a 
search  of  the  house,  and  to  the  examination  of  the 
disordered  and  bloodstained  bedroom,  and  to  the 
discovery  of  a  walking-stick  bearing  the  name  "J. 
Tundering-West"  upon  the  silver  band,  a  blood- 
soaked  handkerchief  marked  J.  T.-W.,  and  a  post- 
card addressed  by  the  victim  to  Mrs.  Tundering- 
West.  Thereupon  the  dazed  innkeeper  and  his 
friends  were  arrested,  and  it  was  observed  that  there 
were  spots  of  blood  upon  the  clothes  of  the  former. 
A  further  search,  after  the  sun  had  risen,  had  re- 
vealed bloodstains  leading  down  to  and  upon  the 
rocks,  whither  the  body  had  evidently  been  carried; 
while  a  bloodstained  knife,  thrown  aside  at  the  edge 
of  the  water,  and  marks  of  a  struggle,  indicated  that 
the  unfortunate  man  had  here  been  "finished  off" 
before  being  dropped  into  the  sea. 

The  arrested  men  had  confessed  to  being  asso- 
ciated with  an  attempted  act  of  violence,  but  swore 
that  the  intended  victim  had  escaped  in  the  boat, 
and  that  one  of  their  number,  who  was  the  only 
guilty  party,  had  fled.  This,  however,  was  a  pal- 
pable lie,  for  the  boat  was  later  found  beached  at  the 
mouth  of  the  estuary  a  short  distance  away,  and  if 
it  had  been  used  at  all,  which  was  not  at  all  certain, 
it  must  have  been  utilized  as  a  means  of  escape  by 
that  one  of  their  number  who  had  bolted. 

Meanwhile,  the  police  had  ascertained  that  Mr. 
Tundering-West  had  been  staying  at  Genoa  three 


THE  ESCAPE  175 

days  previously;  and  that  an  Englishman,  whose 
name  did  not  appear  in  the  hotel  register,  but  was 
probably  identical,  had  stopped  at  the  little  Hotel 
Giovanni  in  Pisa  on  the  nights  previous  to  the  crime. 
During  the  day  a  police-launch  had  scoured  the  sea 
in  the  neighbourhood,  but  the  body  had  not  been 
found. 

Jim  was  dazed  as  he  read  the  amazing  words,  and 
for  some  time  thereafter  he  sat  staring  in  front  of 
him,  lost  in  a  maze  of  speculation.  Two  thoughts, 
however,  stood  out  clearly  in  the  confusion  of  his 
mind.  In  the  first  place  he  must  not  allow  the  inn- 
keeper to  suffer  the  extreme  penalty  for  a  crime 
which  fortunately  had  not  been  committed;  and  in 
the  second  place  he  would  have  to  notify  Dolly  that 
he  was  safe. 

Presently,  therefore,  he  made  his  way  towards  a 
telegraph  office,  and  then,  changing  his  mind,  en- 
quired his  way  to  the  police-station.  He  was  fever- 
ishly anxious  to  preserve  the  secret  of  his  identity 
with  Jim  Easton,  for  that  name  seemed  to  represent 
his  freedom,  and  he  was  filled  with  disappointment 
that  all  his  schemes  for  his  periodical  liberty  should 
thus  fall  to  pieces;  yet  he  could  not  devise  a  means 
of  preserving  his  secret,  and  he  hovered,  irresolute, 
between  the  Scylla  of  the  telegram  and  the  Charyb- 
dis  of  this  devastating  notification  to  the  police. 

He  was  standing  at  a  street  corner,  near  the  tele- 
graph office,  racking  his  brains,  when  a  newspaper 
boy  passed  him,  selling  an  evening  paper;  and  he 
bought  a  copy  in  order  to  read  the  latest  news  in 
regard  to  his  own  murder.  Great  developments,  he 
found,  had  taken  place  during  the  day.    Acting  upon 


176  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

an  anonymous  communication,  the  police  had  dug  up 
the  flagstones  of  one  of  the  basement  rooms  of  the 
inn,  and  there  they  had  found  the  decomposing  body 
of  a  certain  Italian  gentleman  who  had  disappeared 
some  months  previously;  and,  following  upon  this, 
the  innkeeper  had  made  a  dramatic  confession.  It 
was  true,  he  declared,  that  both  murders  were  the 
work  of  his  hands.  In  the  case  of  the  Italian,  the 
victim  had  insulted  a  woman  of  his  acquaintance  and 
a  duel  had  followed;  and  in  the  case  of  the  English- 
man, the  motive  had  been  revenge  for  an  insult  to 
his  beloved  Italy.  He  had  offered  to  fight  this  for- 
eigner like  a  gentleman,  but  the  stranger  had  taken 
a  mean  advantage  of  him  and  had  struck  him  with 
a  candlestick.  Thereupon  he  had  stabbed  him 
deeply,  as  the  blood  indicated,  but  not  fatally,  for 
there  had  followed  a  pretty  fight;  and  at  last  he  had 
lifted  his  opponent  from  the  ground  and  had  hurled 
him  straight  through  the  window.  Then,  contemp- 
tuously handing  his  knife  to  that  one  of  his  friends 
who  had  cravenly  fled,  he  had  told  him  to  finish  the 
work,  and  to  throw  the  body  to  the  fishes. 

At  this  Jim's  heart  leapt  within  him,  and  he 
laughed  aloud.  It  was  now  totally  unnecessary  for 
him  to  save  the  braggart's  neck  by  revealing  the 
fact  that  he  was  alive  and  unhurt.  Indeed,  he 
smiled,  he  had  not  the  heart  to  spoil  the  man's 
boastful  story.  The  innkeeper  was  a  proven  mur- 
derer or  manslaughterer,  and  there  was  no  need  to 
speak  up  in  his  defence.  The  finding  of  the  first 
victim's  body,  and  the  consequent  confession,  had 
completely  ended  the  matter;  and  now  the  law  could 
take  its  course.     And  upon  the  heels  of  this  con- 


THE  ESCAPE  177 

elusion  there  came  rushing  forward  another  thought 
— a  thought  which  had  been  lurking  in  the  back  of 
his  mind  ever  since  he  had  read  the  first  news  of  the 
crime. 

"James  Tundering-West  is  dead,"  he  muttered; 
"the  Squire  of  Eversfield  is  dead!  But  Jim  Easton, 
the  vagrant,  is  alive!" 

He  struck  his  breast  with  his  fist,  and  set  off  walk- 
ing aimlessly  along  the  street,  away  from  the  tele- 
graph office.  Of  a  sudden,  it  seemed  to  him,  an 
incubus  had  been  removed.  That  fat,  leering  figure 
in  its  tight  black  coat,  which,  in  his  imagination, 
had  come  to  represent  dom-estic  life  and  village  so- 
ciety, had  collapsed  like  a  pricked  balloon.  It  had 
leered  at  him  for  the  last  time,  and,  with  a  whistle 
of  escaping  air,  had  shrunk  into  a  little  heap,  over 
which  he  was  even  now  leaping  to  freedom. 

"Jim  Easton,  the  free  man,  is  alive,"  sang  his 
heart,  "but  Dolly's  husband  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
seal" 


Chapter  XIII:     FREEDOM 

IT  is  not  easy  to  convey  in  a  few  words  the 
turmoil  of  Jim's  mind  during  the  following 
days.  One  cannot  say  that  he  was  the  prey 
of  his  conscience,  for  he  believed  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  .that  he  was  doing  the  best  thing  for 
Dolly,  as  well  as  for  himself,  in  thus  allowing  the 
story  of  his  murder  to  stand.  His  uncle  had  lived 
a  double  life,  and  thus  had  maintained  a  reputation 
for  virtue.  In  Jim's  case,  he  could  not  long  have 
hidden  from  the  eyes  of  his  neighbours  the  wretched- 
ness of  his  marriage,  and  there  was  no  likelihood 
that  he  would  have  ever  set  a  shining  example  of 
nobility  to  the  village;  and  therefore  his  supposed 
extinction  could  be  regarded  as  one  of  those  pre- 
tences which  are  the  basis  of  society. 

Had  there  been  any  likelihood  of  his  deception 
being  found  out,  the  case  would  have  been  different; 
but  his  death  had  been  accepted  absolutely,  and  he 
did  not  suppose  that  there  would  be  any  penetrating 
inquiries  or  investigations  by  the  police  now  that  the 
innkeeper  had  made  his  lying  confession.  He  was 
completely  "dead,"  nor  would  he  ever  have  to  come 
back  to  earth  again,  thereby  upsetting  any  future 
arrangement  of  her  life  which  his  "widow"  might 
make;  for  even  if  he  were  one  day  recognized  by 
some  English  acquaintances  he  could  always  put  any 
inquirer  in  the  wrong  by  showing  that  he  had  been 
none  other  than  "Jim  Easton"  these  many  years. 

178 


FREEDOM  179 

Yet  the  fear  of  detection,  and  the  Indefinite  sense 
that  he  was  acting  in  a  manner  violently  opposed  to 
those  legalities  which  he  did  not  understand,  but 
whose  existence  he  realized,  kept  him  in  a  state  of 
nervous  tension  and  temporarily  banished  all  peace 
from  his  mind.  He  was  convinced  that  Dolly  would 
not  grieve  for  him;  yet  the  manner  of  his  death 
would  be  a  shock  to  her,  and  there  were  two  other 
persons — Mrs.  Darling  and  Smiley-face — who 
would  feel  his  loss.  They  would  soon  forget  him, 
however. 

He  recalled  Mrs.  Spooner's  angry  words  to  him 
after  that  day  when  he  had  inadvertently  inter- 
rupted her  bicycle-ride:  "You  haven't  much  idea  of 
obligation,  have  you?"  This  irresponsibility,  of 
which  people  complained,  was  evidently  growing 
upon  him,  he  thought  to  himself;  yet,  viewing  the 
matter  from  another  angle,  was  he  not  now  delib- 
erately acting  for  the  good  of  everybody  concerned, 
in  ending  his  unfortunate  marriage  and  abandoning 
his  inheritance? 

His  equanimity,  however,  gradually  returned  to 
him  in  some  measure;  and  when  at  length  he  went 
back  to  Rome,  and  there  settled  himself  comfortably 
in  the  obscure  little  hotel  in  the  Trastevere  quarter, 
he  was  already  beginning  at  moments  to  feel  a  tre- 
mendous joy  in  his  recovered  liberty. 

He  knew  that  he  was  a  deserter,  and  he  was  well 
aware  that  so  he  would  be  called  by  all  nice-minded 
people.  Yet  that  thought  in  itself  did  not  trouble 
him;  for  the  mental  standpoint  of  the  wanderer  com- 
mands an  outlook  very  different  from  that  of  the 
stout  citizen.     He  saw  clearly  that  he  had  not  in 


i8o  BI'DOUIX    LOVE 

him  the  stuff  of  which  a  constitutional  state  or  a 
model  household  is  made.  He  could  not  be  a  party 
to  so  many  of  the  hypocrisies  of  social  life.  He  was 
not  a  good  disciple  of  the  Great  Sham,  and  was  so 
often  inclined  to  "give  the  show  away"  when  most 
the  illusion  ought  to  have  been  maintained.  He 
was  not  a  respectable  member  of  the  community, 
nor  was  he  gifted  with  those  methodical  and  endur- 
ing qualities  which  shape  wedlock,  into  a  salubrious 
routine.  Perhaps  it  was  that  he  had  too  much 
imagination  to  be  a  good  citizen,  too  much  finesse  to 
be  a  good  husband.  In  any  case  he  knew  that  he 
would  never  have  been  of  use  to  his  country,  except, 
perhaps,  as  a  pioneer  in  a  small  way  (for  the  world- 
power  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  has  been  established  by 
the  rover  and  the  free  lance)  ;  or  possibly  as  a  sort  of 
intellectual  bagman,  unconsciously  exhibiting  the 
lighter  side  of  the  race  to  foreign  and  critical  eyes. 
As  the  days  passed  he  gave  ever  less  considera- 
tion to  his  attitude,  and  soon  his  thoughts  of  Dolly 
and  his  English  life  had  become  sporadic  and  fleet- 
ing. Once,  as  he  loitered  in  the  sunny  Piazza  di 
Spagna  upon  a  certain  Sunday  morning,  and  watched 
the  good  folk  mounting  the  hot  steps  to  the  church 
of  the  Trinita  de'  Monti,  he  irritably  argued  the 
matter  to  himself  as  though  anxious  to  exorcise  it 
by  arriving  at  some  sort  of  finality.  "Dolly  will  be 
far  happier  without  me,"  he  mused.  "If  I  had  left 
her,  and  was  known  to  be  alive,  I  should  harm  her 
by  placing  upon  her  the  stigma  most  hateful  to  her 
sex — that  of  the  unsuccessful  wife.  But  since  I  am 
supposed  to  be  dead,  she  will  benefit  trebly:  she  is 
rid  of  a  bad  husband;  she  will  have  the  pleasure,  very 


FREEDOM  i8i 

real  to  her,  of  wearing  mourning  and  nursing  a 
fictitious  sorrow;  and  she  may  set  about  the  man- 
agement of  her  life  with  a  house  and  a  comfortable 
fortune  to  add  to  her  attractions.  And  then,  again, 
from  a  public  point  of  view,  I  have  avoided  the  in- 
evitable scandal  of  my  married  life  by  dying  before 
I  was  driven  to  drink,  and  debauchery.  My  me- 
morial tablet  in  the  church  will  be  worth  reading  1" 

His  cogitations  did  not  carry  him  further  than  this 
on  the  present  occasion;  for  a  number  of  white 
pigeons  rose  suddenly  from  the  ground  near  his  feet, 
and  circled  round  the  Egyptian  obelisk  which  stands 
in  front  of  the  church,  thereby  directing  his  thoughts 
to  the  land  of  the  Nile  and  to  the  life  which  he  had 
led  before  he  inherited  Eversfield. 

On  another  day,  while  he  was  seated  in  the  shade 
of  the  trees  in  the  Pincian  Gardens,  the  passing  car- 
riages, in  which  the  polite  families  of  Rome  were 
taking  the  air,  led  his  thoughts  back  once  more  to 
these  fading  arguments  and  memories.  "Now  that 
I  am  dead,"  he  reflected,  "Dolly  will  at  last  be  able 
to  have  the  carriage-and-pair  I  had  always  refused 
to  give  her.  She  will  be  able  to  play  the  part  of  the 
little  widow  in  the  big  carriage:  yes! — that  will 
please  her  far  more  than  the  presence  of  an  untidy- 
looking  husband." 

It  is  to  be  understood,  and  perhaps  it  is  to  his 
credit,  that  he  hail  given  the  loss  of  his  inheritance 
never  a  thought,  nor  had  cared  how  his  money  would 
be  spent.  I  le  had  nearly  two  thousand  pounds  in 
the  bank,  which  was  suflicient  to  provide  for  his 
modest  needs  for  three  or  four  years,  _and  further 
than  that  he   had  no  power  to  look,      lie  did  not 


i82  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

grudge  Dolly  the  estate;  and,  indeed,  so  heartily  had 
he  come  to  dislike  Eversfield  and  all  it  meant,  that 
he  could  have  wished  his  worst  enemy  no  greater 
punishment  than  to  be  established  there  at  the 
manor. 

He  gazed  out  through  the  arch  of  the  trees  to  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's,  rising  above  the  distant  houses 
on  the  far  side  of  an  open  space  of  blazing  sunlight; 
and  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  profound  relief  that  a 
means  of  escape  had  been  found  from  the  cage  of 
matrimony  and  domesticity  in  which  he  had  been 
confined.  "I  used  to  think,"  he  mused,  "that  it 
would  be  a  wonderful  thing  to  have  a  wife  who 
would  be  my  refuge  and  my  sanctuary;  but  I  see  now 
that  that  was  a  delusion  and  a  weakness.  It  is  far 
better  for  a  man  to  stand  on  his  own  two  legs,  and 
to  make  his  own  heart  his  place  of  comfort,  and 
what  he  looks  out  on  through  its  windows  his  enter- 
tainment." Yet  even  so,  he  was  aware  that  this 
statement  of  the  case  did  not  cover  the  whole 
ground;  for  there  certainly  were  times  when  he  suf- 
fered from  a  sense  of  tremendous  loneliness. 

Then  came  the  trial  of  the  innkeeper,  and  for  a 
short  time  he  was  obliged  to  return  to  the  past;  yet 
now  he  viewed  matters  with  complete  detachment: 
it  was  as  though  he  were  in  no  way  identical  with 
James  Tundering-West,  nor  ever  had  been.  He 
read  in  the  papers,  without  a  tremor,  how  his  wife 
had  identified  the  walking-stick,  handkerchief,  and 
postcard,  which  had  been  sent  to  England  for  the 
purpose  of  that  formality.  He  was  mildly  relieved 
to  find  that  his  dealings  with  the  diamonds  had  not 
been  traced,  and  that  his  movements  in  France,  and 


FREEDOM  183 

his  subsequent  visit  to  Genoa  and  Pisa,  were  but 
roughly  sketched  in  as  having  no  bearing  upon  the 
actual  crime.  The  innkeeper's  declarations  quite 
amused  him,  and  he  was  hardly  indignant  to  find  that 
the  man  had  become  a  popular  figure,  and  that  his 
sentence  was  wholly  inadequate. 

The  close  of  the  trial  marked  Jim's  complete 
emancipation.  With  a  wide  mental  gesture,  which 
was  very  inadequately  expressed  by  his  twisted  smile 
and  the  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  he  dismissed  the  tale 
of  his  marriage  from  the  history  of  his  life,  and 
turned  his  attention  wholly  to  that  all-embracing 
present,  which  is  the  true  wanderer's  domain.  The 
"I  was"  and  the  "I  shall  be"  of  the  citizen's  domestic 
life  was  lost  in  the  great  "I  am"  of  the  vagabond. 
He  was  no  longer  the  lord  of  a  compact  little  estate, 
bounded  by  grey  stone  walls  and  green  hedges.  He 
was  the  squire  vagrant;  he  was  enfeoffed  of  the 
whole  wide  world. 

In  the  first  exultation  of  his  final  freedom  he 
decided  to  leave  Rome.  The  true  vagrant  does  not 
move  from  place  to  place  in  conscious  search  of 
knowledge  or  experience:  he  has  no  purpose  in  his 
movements.  He  travels  onwards  merely  to  satisfy 
an  undefined  appetite  for  life.  The  difference  be- 
tween the  real  nomad  and  the  ordinary  traveller  is 
this,  that  the  latter  passes  with  definite  intent  from 
one  stopping-place  to  the  next,  and  the  intervening 
road  is  but  the  means  of  approach  to  a  desired  goal; 
but  the  nomad  has  no  goal,  or  It  might  be  said  that 
the  road  itself  is  his  goal. 

In  Jim's  case — to  use  an  illustrative  exaggera- 
tion— If  he  were  moving  south,  and  the  dust  were  to 


i84  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

blow  in  his  face,  he  would  turn  and  travel  north. 
Thus,  when  he  made  his  departure  from  Rome  he 
took  his  direction  almost  at  random.  He  had  no 
ties,  no  duties,  no  cares.  A  knapsack  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  some  loose  change  jingling  in  his 
pocket,  a  roll  of  notes  stuffed  into  his  wallet,  and  at 
least  three  languages  ready  to  his  tongue,  he  set  out 
to  range  over  his  new  estate,  the  world,  having  the 
feeling  in  his  heart  that  he  had  come  back  to  the 
freedom  of  youth  from  a  misty  prison  of  premature 
age  which  was  already  fast  fading  from  his 
memory. 

His  route  would  be  difficult  to  record  and  puzzling 
to  follow.  For  days  together  he  lingered  at  little 
inns  where  a  few  francs  procured  him  excellent  fare; 
now  he  passed  on  by  road  or  rail,  by  river  or  lake,  to 
new  districts,  and  new  settings  for  the  comedy  of 
his  life;  and  now  he  came  to  rest  under  the  awnings 
of  some  small  hotel  in  the  heart  of  a  sun-bathed  city. 

During  a  spell  of  particularly  hot  weather  he 
went  north  to  Lake  Maggiore,  where,  on  the  cool 
slopes  of  Mergozzolo,  he  spent  a  number  of  dreamy 
days  at  a  little  whitewashed  inn,  from  whose  terrace 
he  could  look  down  upon  the  lake  and  beyond  it  to 
the  blue  and  hazy  plains  of  Lombardy  and  Pied- 
mont. He  worked  here  on  the  polishing  of  his 
verses,  writing  also  a  longish  poem  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  freedom;  and  in  the  evenings  he  sat  for  hours 
under  the  stars,  talking  to  the  proprietor  and  his 
wife,  or  playing  his  guitar,  and  smoking  the  little 
cigarettes  in  which  the  Italian  Government  so  wisely 
specializes. 

One  incident  which  occurred  at  this  time  may  be 


FREEDOM  185 

recorded.  He  was  making  a  journey  by  train  one 
piping-hot  day,  and  was  seated  alone  in  a  smoking 
compartment,  which  was  connected  by  a  door  with 
another  compartment  where  smoking  was  not  per- 
mitted. During  a  long  run  between  two  stations  this 
door  was  opened  and  another  traveller  entered, 
carrying  a  small  portmanteau  and  a  bundle  of  rugs. 
He  was  a  stout,  florid,  prosperous-looking  business 
man,  whose  English  nationality  was  entirely  obvious, 
and  when  he  explained  in  very  bad  Italian  that  he 
was  changing  his  seat  in  order  to  smoke  a  pipe,  Jim 
answered  him  in  his  mother  tongue,  and  soon  they 
passed  into  casual  conversation. 

"People  on  these  Italian  railways,"  the  stranger 
said,  "seem  to  smoke  in  any  carriage;  but  I,  person- 
ally, feel  that  one  ought  to  stick  to  the  rules,  and 
only  do  so  in  the  compartments  specially  provided 
for  the  purpose." 

"Quite  right,  I'm  sure,"  Jim  replied,  having  no 
pronounced  views  on  the  subject,  but  wishing  to  be 
polite. 

"That  is  what  these  foreigners  lack — a  sense  of 
neighborly  duty,"  the  man  went  on.  "Don't  you 
think  so?  I  always  feel  that  England  is  what  she  is 
because  our  people  always  consider  the  other  fellow. 
We  pull  together  and  help  each  other." 

He  enlarged  upon  this  subject,  and  was  still  citing 
instances  in  support  of  his  argument,  when  the  train 
pulled  up  at  a  small  station,  where  a  halt  of  ten 
minutes  or  so  was  announced  by  an  official  upon  the 
platform.  Thereupon  a  number  of  passengers 
alighted  from  the  train  and  made  their  way  through 
the  bla/.ing  sunlight   to   a    refreshment   stall   which 


i86  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

stood  in  the  cool  shade  of  a  dusty  tree  in  the  station 
yard,  just  beyond  the  barriers. 

Jim  was  in  lazy  mood,  and  did  not  join  this  throng 
of  thirsty  humanity;  but  his  companion,  who  was 
feeling  the  heat,  left  his  seat  and  followed  the 
hurrying  crowd. 

At  length  the  bell  rang,  and  the  guard  blew  his 
horn;  and  Jim,  suddenly  awakening  from  a  reverie, 
became  aware  that  his  fellow  traveller  had  not  re- 
turned, and  hastily  leaned  out  of  the  window  to  see 
what  had  become  of  him.  The  driver  sounded  his 
whistle,  and  set  the  engine  in  motion;  and  at  the 
same  moment  Jim  saw  a  fat  and  frantic  figure  strug- 
gling to  pass  the  barrier,  and  being  held  back  by 
excited  officials,  who,  it  seemed,  were  refusing  to 
allow  him  to  attempt  to  board  the  moving  train. 

Jim  waved  his  arm  and  received  some  sort  of 
answering  signal  of  distress.  Instantly  the  thought 
flashed  into  his  mind  that  here  was  an  opportunity 
to  display  that  sense  of  obligation  of  which  they 
had  spoken,  and  to  aid  a  fellow  creature  in  trouble. 
The  man's  baggage !  He  must  throw  it  out  of  the 
train,  so  that,  at  any  rate,  the  owner  in  his  dilemma 
should  not  be  separated  from  his  belongings. 

Snatching  the  portmanteau  and  the  rugs  from  the 
seat  where  they  rested,  he  pushed  them  through  the 
window,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  them  roll 
to  safety  upon  the  platform  at  the  feet  of  a  be- 
wildered porter.  Again  he  waved  to  the  struggling 
man,  and  pointed  repeatedly  to  the  baggage  with 
downward  jabbing  finger;  then,  having  thus  per- 
formed what  he  considered  to  be  a  most  neighbourly 
act  of  quick-witted  succour,  he  sank  back  into  his 


FREEDOM  187 

corner  seat  and  laughed  to  himself  at  the  incident. 

A  smile  still  suffused  his  face  when,  several 
minutes  later,  the  door  from  the  next  compartment 
opened  and  the  portly  Englishman  made  his 
appearance. 

"Warm  lemonade,"  he  remarked;  "but  it  was 
better  than  nothing.  A  dam'  pretty  woman  in  the 
next  carriage.  I've  been  trying  to  talk  to  her,  but 
it  was  no  good:  we  can't  understand  each  other," 

Jim  stared  at  him  in  horror,  as  at  a  ghost.  "Then 
it  wasn't  you  at  the  barrier?"  he  gasped  in  awe. 

"What  d'you  mean?"  the  other  asked.  "Hullo, 
where's  my  baggage?" 

Jim  blanched.  "I  threw  it  out  of  the  window," 
he  said,  swallowing  convulsively. 

"You  did  zihat?"  the  man  exclaimed,  staring  at 
him  in  amazement. 

"I  thought,"  Jim  stammered,  "it  was  the  most 
neighbourly  thing  to  do;  you  see,  I  .  .  ."  But  the 
remainder  of  the  sentence  failed  upon  his  dry  lips, 
as  the  corpulent  stranger  rose  up  before  him  in  the 
crimson  fullness  of  his  fury. 

Never  had  Jim,  in  all  his  vicissitudes,  been  sub- 
jected to  so  overwhelming  a  bombardment  of  abuse; 
and  though  he  managed  at  length  to  explain  the 
mistake  he  had  made,  he  failed  thereby  to  check  the 
passionate  maledictions  which  spluttered  and  burst 
about  his  devoted  head  like  fireworks.  At  last  he 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  and,  rising  slowly  to  his 
feet,  he  smote  the  stranger  a  blow  upon  the  jaw 
which  sent  him  reeling  across  the  compartment,  as 
the  train  came  to  a  standstill  at  another  station. 

The  man  staggered  to  the  door,  and,  tumbling  out 


i88  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

on  to  the  platform,  shouted  for  help  in  a  frenzied 
admixture  of  English,  French,  and  Italian;  but  while 
a  crowd  of  uncomprehending  passengers  and  officials 
gathered  around  him,  Jim  opened  the  door  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  carriage,  and  descended  on  to 
the  deserted  track.  A  moment  later  he  had  disap- 
peared behind  the  wall  of  an  adjacent  shed,  and  soon 
was  out  on  the  high  road,  heading  for  his  destina- 
tion, which  was  yet  some  ten  miles  distant. 

"That's  enough  of  neighbourly  duty  for  one  day," 
he  muttered,  as  he  lit  a  cigarette. 

A  great  part  of  August  he  spent  amidst  the  woods 
of  Monte  Adamello,  and  in  the  Val  Camonica;  but, 
suddenly  feeling  a  little  bored,  and  having  a  desire 
for  the  sea,  he  made  the  long  train-journey  to 
Venice,  and  crossed  the  water  to  the  Lido,  where  he 
bought  himself  a  mad  red-and-white  bathing  suit, 
and  went  daily  into  the  sea  with  a  crowd  of  merry 
Venetians. 

The  delights  of  the  Stabilimento  dei  Bagni,  how- 
ever, did  not  long  hold  him  in  thrall.  There  was 
too  much  splashing  and  spitting;  and,  when  the  bath- 
ing hours  were  over  for  the  day,  the  concert-hall 
and  the  open-air  theatre  offered  a  kind  of  entertain- 
ment which,  owing  to  an  unaccountable  mood  of 
discontent,  soon  began  to  pall.  He  therefore  took 
ship  across  the  Gulf  of  Venice  to  Trieste,  and  stayed 
for  some  days  at  a  small  hotel  on  the  hillside  towards 
Boschetto. 

Here,  one  evening  at  dinner,  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  ship's  officer,  who  told  him  that 
on  the  morrow  the  steamer  on  which  he  was  em- 
ployed   was    sailing    for    Cyprus;    and,    without    a 


FREEDOM  189 

moment's  hesitation,  Jim  decided  to  take  passage  by 
it  to  that  island  of  romance.  It  was  September,  and 
the  weather  was  cooling  fast.  He  had  had  some 
vague  idea  of  crossing  the  sea  to  the  Levant;  but 
now  this  new  suggestion  came  to  him  with  a  sur- 
prisingly definite  appeal. 

"Of  course,  Cyprus  1"  he  exclaimed.  "The  very 
place  I  have  always  wanted  to  visit.  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  it." 

He   had   read  books,   and  had  heard   travellers' 
tales,   about  this  wonderful  land  which  rises  from 
the  blue  waters  of  the  eastern  Mediterranean  like 
a  phantom  isle  of  enchantment.     Here  the  remains 
of  temples  dedicated  to  the  old  gods  of  Greece  are 
lo  be  seen:  the  mountain  streams  still  resound  at 
noon  with  the  pipes  of  Pan;  at  sunset  upon  the  sea- 
shore one  may  picture  Aphrodite  rising  in  her  glory 
from  the  waves;  and  at  midnight  the  barking  of  the 
dogs  of  Diana  may  be  heard  over  the  hills.     The 
Crusaders  endeavoured  to  establish  a  kingdom  here 
on  FVankish  lines,  and  the  place  is  full  of  the  ruins 
of  their  efforts.     The  headlands  are  crested  with 
crumbling  baronial  castles,   and  in  the  towns  there 
still  stand  the  walls  of  Gothic  churches,  wherein,  at 
dead  of  night,  they  say  that  the  ghostly  chanting  of 
hymns  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  may  be  heard.     Then 
came    the    Moslems;    and    to    this    day    the   call    to 
prayer  in  the  name  of  Allah  synchronizes  with  the 
tolling  of  convent  bells  summoning  the  worshippers 
in  the  name  of  the  Mother  of  Jesus,  while  the  peas- 
ants, inwardly  heedless  of  both,  still  make  their  little 
offerings  at  the  traditional  holy  places  of  the  gods 
of  Olympus. 


I90  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

It  is  a  land  in  which  the  movement  of  Time  is 
forgotten,  and  in  part  it  is  a  living  remnant  of  the 
dead  ages;  and  as  such  it  had  for  long  appealed  to 
Jim's  imagination.  Straightway,  therefore,  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  his  bankers  in  Rome  telling  them  to  for- 
ward him  some  money  to  the  Post  Office  at  Nicosia, 
the  capital  city;  and  twenty  hours  later  he  was 
standing  on  the  deck  of  the  small  coasting  steamer, 
watching  the  land  receding  from  sight  in  a  haze  of 
afternoon  heat. 

On  the  sixth  morning,  as  the  sun  was  rising,  the 
anchor  rattled  into  the  blue  waters  of  the  roadstead 
before  Larnaca,  the  chief  port  of  Cyprus;  and,  after 
an  early  breakfast,  Jim  was  rowed  in  a  small  boat, 
manned  by  a  Greek  and  a  negro,  towards  the  little 
town  which  stood  white  and  resplendent  in  the  sun- 
shine, its  cupolas,  minarets,  and  flat-roofed  houses 
backed  by  the  vivid  green  of  the  palms  and  the 
saffron  of  the  hills.  He  knew  a  few  words  of  Greek, 
and  a  considerable  amount  of  Arabic;  and,  with  the 
aid  of  his  friend  the  ship's  officer,  he  had  soon 
chartered  the  two-horse  carriage  in  which  he  was  to 
make  the  thirty-mile  journey  to  Nicosia,  the  inland 
capital  of  the  island. 

The  road  passed  across  the  bare,  sunburnt  up- 
lands, and  was  flanked  by  scattered  rocks,  from 
which  the  basking  lizards  scampered  as  the  carriage 
approached.  Occasionally  they  passed  a  cart  drawn 
by  two  long-horned  bullocks,  led  by  a  scarlet-capped 
peasant;  or  a  solitary  shepherd  driving  his  flock;  or 
some  cloaked  and  bearded  rider  upon  a  mule,  jing- 
ling down  to  the  coast.  The  glare  of  the  road  was 
great;  but  under  the  shelter  of  the  dusty  awning  of 


FREEDOM  191 

the  carriage  Jim  was  cool  enough,  and  there  was  a 
refreshing  following-wind  blowing  up  from  the  sea, 
which  tempered  the  autumn  heat. 

The  time  passed  quickly,  and  it  did  not  seem 
long  before  they  lurched,  with  a  great  cracking  of  the 
driver's  whip,  into  the  half-way  village  of  Dali.  The 
second  stage  of  the  journey  was  more  tedious,  for 
now  the  novelty  of  the  rugged  scenery  was  gone,  and 
the  jolting  of  the  rickety  carriage  was  more  notice- 
able. Jim  was  thankful,  therefore,  when,  in  the 
late  afternoon,  Nicosia  came  suddenly  Into  sight, 
and  the  carriage  presently  rattled  through  the  tun- 
nelled gateway  in  the  medlcBval  ramparts,  and  passed 
into  the  narrow  and  echoing  streets  of  the  city. 

Here  Greeks  and  Armenians,  Arabs  and  Turks 
thronged  the  intricate  thoroughfares;  and  as  the 
driver  made  his  way  towards  the  Greek  hotel,  to 
which  Jim  had  been  recommended,  there  was  much 
pulling  at  the  mouths  of  the  weary  horses  and  much 
hoarse  shouting.  Now  their  passage  was  obstructed 
by  an  oxen-drawn  cart,  piled  high  with  earthenware 
jars;  now  they  seemed  to  be  about  to  unseat  a  tur- 
baned  Oriental  from  his  white  steed;  and  now  a 
group  of  Greek  girls  bearing  pitchers  upon  their 
heads  was  scattered  to  right  and  left  as  the  carriage 
lumbered  round  a  corner.  Here  was  a  priest  enter- 
ing a  Gothic  doorway  dating  from  the  days  of  Rich- 
ard Cceur-de-LIon,  and  upon  the  wall  above  him  were 
carved  the  arms  of  some  forgotten  knight  of  Nor- 
mandy; here  a  sheikh  In  flowing  silks  stood  kicking 
off  his  shoes  before  the  tiled  entrance  of  a  mosque. 
Here  were  noisy  Turkish  children  playing  before  a 
building  which  recalled  the  age  of  the  \'cnctlan  Re- 


192  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

public;  and  here  wild-eyed  Cypriot  peasants  wrangled 
and  argued  as  they  had  argued  since  those  far-off 
days  when  Cleopatra's  sister  was  queen  of  the  island, 
and,  ages  earlier,  when  Phoenician  seamen  and  the 
warriors  of  ancient  Greece  had  held  them  in  sub- 
jection. 

At  last  the  carriage  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  white 
archway  which  led  through  a  high,  blank  wall  into 
the  hotel;  and  presently  Jim  found  himself  in  a 
quiet  courtyard,  where  a  tinkling  fountain  played 
amongst  the  orange-trees.  The  building  was  erected 
around  the  four  sides  of  this  secluded  yard,  the 
rooms  leading  off  a  red-tiled  balcony,  supported  on 
a  series  of  whitewashed  arches,  and  approached  by 
a  flight  of  worn  stone  steps. 

Up  to  this  covered  balcony  he  was  led  by  the 
genial  proprietor,  a  man  with  a  fierce  grey  moustache 
which  belled  a  fat  and  kindly  face;  and  a  room  was 
assigned  to  him,  from  the  door  of  which  he  could 
look  down  upon  the  fountain  and  the  oranges,  while 
from  the  window  at  the  opposite  end  he  commanded 
a  short  view  across  a  jumble  of  flat  housetops  to  a 
group  of  tall  dark  cypress  trees,  where  the  sparrows 
were  chattering  as  they  gathered  to  roost. 

The  walls  of  the  room  were  whitewashed  and 
were  pleasantly  devoid  of  pictures.  It  might  have 
been  a  chamber  in  an  ancient  palace,  and  as  Jim  sat 
himself  down  upon  the  wooden  bench  he  had  the 
feeling  that  he  had  passed  from  the  twentieth  century 
into  some  period  of  the  far  past. 

For  some  time  there  had  been  a  vague  kind  of 
discontent  in  his  mind.  It  was  as  though  his  life 
were   incomplete.      He   seemed   to   be   seeking   for 


FREEDOM  193 

something,  the  nature  of  which  he  could  not  define. 
At  times  he  had  thought  that  this  was  due  to  a 
desire  for  romance,  a  natural  urge  of  sex;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  his  reason  told  him  that  he  had  had 
enough  of  women,  and  that  his  present  emancipa- 
tion was  in  essence  very  largely  a  freedom  from 
them. 

Now,  however,  in  the  dusk  of  this  quiet  room,  his 
heart  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  be  at  rest;  and  when 
from  a  distant  minaret  there  came  to  his  ears  the 
evening  call  to  prayer,  a  sense  of  inevitability,  a 
kind  of  acknowledgment  of  Kismet,  or  Fate,  passed 
over  him  and  soothed  him  into  a  hopeful  and  ex- 
pectant peacefulness. 

He  was  still  in  this  tranquil  mood  when  the  sum- 
mons to  the  evening  meal  brought  him  down  the 
stone  steps  and  across  the  courtyard,  where  the 
ripe  oranges  hung  from  the  trees,  and  the  fountain 
splashed.  It  was  with  quiet,  dawdling  steps,  too, 
that  he  strolled  out,  hatless,  into  the  narrow  street 
after  the  meal  was  finished.  The  night  was  warm 
and  close,  with  the  moon  at  full;  and  the  pale 
deserted  thoroughfare  was  hushed  as  though  it  were 
concealing  some  secret.  The  barred  windows  and 
shut  doors  of  the  houses  seemed  to  hide  unspoken 
things,  and  the  two  or  three  passers-by,  moving  like 
shadows  near  to  the  wall,  gave  the  impression  that 
they  were  bent  upon  some  mysterious  mission. 

Here  and  there  between  the  houses  on  either  side 
small  gardens  were  hidden  away  behind  high  white- 
washed walls,  above  which  the  tops  of  the  trees 
could  be  seen.  The  door  of  one  of  these  stood  open, 
and  Jim,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  empty  street, 


194  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

paused  to  gaze  through  the  white  archway  into  the 
shadows  and  sprinkled  moonlight  beyond. 

Then,  quietly  Into  the  frame  of  the  doorway  there 
came  the  figure  of  a  woman,  peering  out  into  the 
street,  the  moon  shining  upon  her  face  and  upon  her 
white  hand,  which  held  the  door  as  though  she  were 
about  to  shut  it  for  the  night.  On  the  instant,  and 
with  a  leap  of  his  heart,  Jim  recognized  her. 

"Monime!"  he  cried  out  in  amazement,  running 
forward  to  her.  He  saw  her  raise  her  arm  to  her 
forehead  and  step  back  into  the  shadow :  he  could 
hear  her  gasp  of  surprise.  A  moment  later  he  had 
taken  her  hand  in  his,  and  her  startled  eyes  had 
met  his  own. 


Chapter  XIV:  THE  ISLAND  OF  FORGETFULNESS 

MONIME!"  he  repeated.  "Don't  you 
know  me?  I'm  Jim — Jim  Easton." 
For  a  moment  yet  she  did  not  speak. 
He  could  feel  her  hand  trembling  a  little  in  his,  and 
the  movement  of  her  breast  revealed  the  haste  of 
her  breathing.  She  leaned  back  against  the  jamb  of 
the  door,  and  her  eyes  turned  towards  the  garden 
behind  her,  as  though  she  were  contemplating  flight 
into  its  shadows. 

When  at  last  she  spoke,  her  words  came  rapidly. 
"Why  have  you  come  to  C}^rus?"  she  asked  pas- 
sionately; and  the  sound  of  her  voice  brought  a 
half-forgotten  Alexandrian  night  racing  back  to  his 
consciousness.  "You  couldn't  have  known  I  was 
here,  and  nobody  knows  who  I  am.  How  did  you 
find  out  where  I  lived?"  She  moved  her  head  from 
side  to  side  in  a  kind  of  anguish  which  he  did  not 
understand.  "I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  need 
for  you  in  the  Villa  Nasayan." 

"Nasayan?"  he  repeated,  in  query.  "Is  that  the 
name  of  this  house?"  She  nodded  her  head.  "That's 
the  Arabic  for  'Forgetfulness,'  "  he  said.  "Why  did 
you  give  it  such  a  name?" 

Her  answer  faltered.  The  serenity  with  which 
he  associated  her  in  his  memory  had  temporarily  left 
her.  "There  was  much  to  forget,"  she  replied,  "and 
much  has  been  forgotten.     Cyprus  is  called  'The 

195 


196  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Island  of  Forgetfulness.'  It  is  wonderful  how  bad 
one's  memory  becomes  here." 

She  laughed  nervously,  and  again  put  her  hand  to 
her  head.  The  fingers  of  her  other  hand  drummed 
upon  the  wall.   "Why  have  you  come?"  she  repeated. 

"There  was  no  reason,"  he  said.  "I  just  thought 
I'd  like  to  see  Cyprus.  I  had  no  idea  you  were  here. 
I  only  arrived  to-day:  I  was  just  strolling  about 
after  dinner  .   .   ." 

"It's  more  than  four  years,"  she  murmured. 
"Four  years  is  a  very  long  time.  It  was  all  so  long 
ago,  Jim,  wasn't  it?  Nobody  can  remember  things 
as  long  ago  as  that,  can  they?" 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  and  stood 
staring  at  him  with  a  baffling  half-smile  upon  her 
lips.  His  heart  sank,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
was  not  minded  to  revive  that  dream  of  the  past 
which  to  him  had  suddenly  leapt  once  more  into 
vivid  reality. 

"I  have  never  forgotten,"  he  whispered,  though 
he  knew  that  the  words  needed  qualification.  "I 
knew  it  was  you,  almost  before  I  saw  your  face." 
He  hesitated.    "May  I  come  into  your  garden?" 

She  allowed  him  to  enter,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  Together  they  walked  in  silence  to  a 
stone  bench  which  stood  in  the  moonlight  beneath  a 
dark  cypress-tree;  and  here  they  seated  themselves, 
side  by  side. 

For  a  while  they  talked;  but  it  was  a  sort  of  fenc- 
ing with  words,  he  thrusting  and  she  parrying.  He 
did  not  know  what  he  said;  for  all  his  actual  con- 
sciousness went  out  to  her,  not  through  speech,  but 
through  a  kind  of  contact  of  their  hidden  hearts. 


THE  ISLAND  OF  FORGETFULNESS197 

Then,  without  further  preliminaries,  she  turned 
on  him.  "You  say  you  have  never  forgotten,"  she 
laughed.  "But  when  you  say  that  you  are  deceiving 
yourself,  or  trying  to  deceive  me.  I  don't  like  to 
hear  you  making  conventional  remarks,  Jim:  I  have 
always  thought  of  you  as  frank  to  the  point  of  rude- 
ness. Be  frank  with  me  now,  and  admit  that  you 
regarded  our  time  together  as  a  little  episode  in 
your  wandering  life,  and  that  you  went  on  your  way 
without  another  thought  for  me   .   ,   ." 

He  interrupted  her.  "Was  that  how  you  felt 
about  me? — you  forgot  me,  too,  didn't  you?" 

"With  a  woman  it  is  different,"  she  replied. 
"One  is  not  always  able  to  forget  so  soon." 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  your  name,  or  give 
me  some  address?"  he  asked.  "I  wrote  to  you 
from  the  ship:  I  posted  the  letter  at  Marseilles. 
Didn't  you  get  it?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I  stayed  on  at  the  Beaux- 
Esprits  for  a  week  or  so,  but  nothing  came.  I  left 
an  address  when  I  went  away:  I'm  sure  I  did." 

He  laughed.  "I  think  you  must  have  forgotten 
to.     We  are  both  just  tramps  .   .   ." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  deprecation.  "At  first  I 
wanted  to  find  you  again  very  badly,"  she  said, 
turning  her  face  from  him.  "I  made  inquiries,  but 
nobody  seemed  to  know  anything  about  you.  I  re- 
membered you  said  you'd  inherited  some  property, 
and  I  even  got  a  friend  in  England  to  look  up  recent 
wills  and  bequests  for  tiie  name  of  Easton,  but  no 
trace  could  be  found.  Then,  somehow,  it  didn't 
seem  to  matter  any  more,  and  I  told  iiim  not  to  look 
for  you  further." 


198  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

"Then  you  did  care  .   .   .?" 

"Who  can  tell?"  she  smiled,  and  her  words  baffled 
him,  as  did  also  the  expression  of  her  face  in  the 
moonlight. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  your  name?"  he  asked. 
"I  don't  yet  know  it." 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "My  name  is  still 
'Smith,'  "  she  laughed. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  he  answered. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "They  all  know  me 
as  that  in  this  place — just  'Mrs.  Smith.'  " 

"It  used  to  be  Miss  Smith,"  he  said. 

"One  causes  less  comment  as  a  married  woman," 
she  explained.  "Such  friends  as  I  have  suppose 
that  I  am  a  widow  who,  being  an  artist,  has  come 
to  live  here  because  of  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
place  and  its  cheapness." 

"And  what  is  the  real  reason?"  he  asked,  looking 
Intently  into  her  eyes. 

Of  a  sudden  she  rose  from  the  bench,  and  stood 
before  him,  her  back  to  the  moon,  the  light  of  which 
made  a  shining  aureole  round  her  hair.  Her  left 
hand  was  laid  across  her  breast;  the  other  was 
clenched  at  her  side. 

"Jim,  I  beg  you  .  .  ."  she  said.  "This  is  the 
Island  of  Forgetfulness,  and  you  have  strayed  here, 
bringing  Memory  with  you.  There  is  no  need  for 
you  in  Nasayan.  For  my  sake,  for  your  own  sake, 
go,  I  beg  you.  There  is  something  here  which  we 
have  in  common,  and  yet  which  separates  us:  some- 
thing which  to  me  is  a  garland  of  Paradise,  and 
which  to  you  might  be  like  the  chains  of  hell.  I  beg 
you,  I  beg  you :  go  away !    Go  back  to  the  open  road 


THE  ISLAND  OF  FORGETFULNESS  199 

and  the  Bedouin  life.  Leave  me  in  Nasayan,  in 
oblivion.  I  don't  want  you  to  know  more  than  this. 
I  swear  to  you  there  is  no  call  for  you  to  stay.  You 
have  your  wandering  life:  the  hills  and  the  valleys 
and  the  cities  of  the  whole  world  are  before  you. 
Don't  stay  here,  don't  try  to  look  into  Nasayan  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  faltered,  her  gestures  were  those  of 
pleading,  yet  even  so  she  appeared  to  him  to  have 
that  regal  attitude  which  he  remembered  now  so  well. 

The  meaning  of  her  words,  the  cause  of  their 
intensity,  were  obscure  to  him.  His  mind  was  con- 
fused, and  there  was  a  quality  of  dream  in  their 
situation.  The  black  cypress  trees  which  shot  up 
around  them  into  the  pale  sky  like  monstrous  senti- 
nels; the  little  orange-trees  fantastically  decked  with 
their  golden  fruit;  the  tiled  and  moon-splashed  path- 
ways; the  white  walls  of  the  villa,  clad  with  rich 
creepers;  the  heavy  scent  of  luxuriant  flowers;  the 
sparkling  water  in  the  marble  basin  of  the  fountain 
— all  these  things  seemed  unreal  to  him.  They  were 
like  a  legendary  setting  for  the  mysterious  figure 
standing  before  him,  a  figure,  so  it  seemed  to  him, 
of  a  queen  of  some  kingdom  of  the  old  world,  left 
solitary  amongst  the  living  long  ages  after  her  ad- 
visers and  her  palaces  had  crumbled  to  dust  in  the 
grasp  of  Time. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  rising  and  con- 
fronting her.  "What  is  the  secret  about  you? — 
there  was  always  mystery  around  you." 

*'No,"  she  answered.  "There  was  no  mystery 
four  years  ago,  except  the  mystery  of  our  dream. 
My  secret  then  was  only  a  small  matter.  1  was  just 
a  runaway.     I  had  left  my  husband  because  I  wanted 


200  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

my  freedom,  and  to  follow  my  art  in  freedom.  I 
had  changed  my  name  because  I  feared  to  be  called 
back.  But  now  he  is  dead,  and  I  have  nothing  to 
fear  in  that  direction,  .  .  .  No,  there  was  no  secret 
—then." 

"But  now? — please  tell  me,  Monime,"  he  urged. 
"I  want  to  know,  I  must  know." 

Once  more  she  fenced  with  him,  and  their  words 
became  useless.  At  length,  however,  his  questions 
brought  a  crisis  near  to  them  again.  She  clenched 
and  unclenched  her  hands.  "I  beg  you,  go  away 
now,"  she  urged.  "Forget  me;  go  back  to  your 
freedom.  There  is  something  here  which  will  trap 
you  if  you  stay.  Oh,  can't  you  understand?  Don't 
you  see  that  I  can't  tell  whether  Fate  has  brought 
you  here  for  your  happiness,  or  even  for  my  happi- 
ness, or  whether  it  is  for  our  sorrow  that  you  have 
been  brought.  I  can't  tell,  I  can't  tell!  We  are 
almost  strangers  to  one  another." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  and  held  her  to  him. 
She  neither  shrank  from  him,  nor  responded  to 
him.  At  that  moment  all  else  in  time,  all  else  in 
life,  was  blotted  from  his  mind,  and  he  knew  only 
that  he  had  found  again  the  lost  gateway  of  his 
dreams. 

"You  must  speak  out,"  he  cried.  "I  must  know 
all  that  there  is  to  know  about  you.  You  must 
explain  what  you  mean." 

She  made  a  movement  from  him,  and  suddenly 
it  seemed  that  her  mind  was  resolved.  "Very  well, 
then,"  she  said.     "Come  with  me  into  the  house." 

She  led  the  way  in  silence  down  the  pathway,  and 
through    a    doorway    almost    hidden    beneath    the 


THE  ISLAND  OF  FORGETFULNESS  201 

creepers.  A  dark  passage,  screened  by  a  curtain, 
led  into  a  square  hall,  softly  lit  by  candles;  and  at 
one  side  of  this  a  stone  staircase  passed  up  to  a 
gallery  from  which  two  doors  opened. 

To  one  of  these  doors  she  brought  him,  a  shaded 
candle  held  in  her  hand.  Her  face  was  turned  from 
him  as  they  entered  the  room,  and  he  could  not  tell 
what  her  expression  might  be;  but  her  step  was 
stealthy  and  her  finger  was  held  up. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  in  a  flash,  he  understood;  and 
instantly  he  knew  what  he  was  going  to  see  in  the 
little  bed  which  stood  against  the  wall. 

She  held  the  candle  aloft  and  motioned  him 
silently  to  approach  the  bed.  It  was  only  a  mop  of 
dark  curls  that  he  could  see,  and  a  chubby  face  half 
buried  in  the  pillows. 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  burning  question  on  his 
lips,  but  the  beating  of  his  heart  seemed  to  deprive 
him  of  the  power  of  speech.  She  nodded  gently  to 
him,  her  face  once  more  serene  and  calm,  and  now, 
too,  very  proud. 

"He  is  your  son,"  she  said. 

With  a  quick  eager  movement  he  pulled  the  light 
blanket  back,  and  snatched  up  the  sleeping  little 
figure  in  his  arms.  Even  though  the  eyes  were  tight 
shut,  the  mouth  absurdly  open,  and  the  head  falling 
loosely  from  side  to  side,  he  saw  at  once  the  likeness 
to  himself,  and  to  all  the  Tundering-Wests  at  whose 
portraits  he  had  gazed  during  those  years  at  Evers- 
field.     His  heart  leapt  within  him. 

"Don't  wake  him!"  she  exclaimed,  hastening  for- 
ward; and  as  she  laid  the  child  upon  the  bed  once 
more  Jim  saw  her  revealed  in  a  new  aspect — that  of 


202  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

a  mother.  Her  attitude  as  she  bent  over  the  sleep- 
ing form,  the  encircling,  protecting  arms,  the  croon- 
ing words — they  were  tokens  of  a  sort  of  universal 
motherhood.  She  was  Isis,  the  mother-goddess  of 
Egypt;  she  was  Hathor;  she  was  Venus  Genetrix; 
she  was  Mary.  Upon  her  broad  bosom  she  nursed 
for  ever  the  child  of  man;  and  her  lips  smiled 
eternally  with  the  pride  of  creation. 

Silently  he  watched  her  as  she  smoothed  the  pil- 
lows, and  there  came  to  him  the  memory  of  that  day 
at  Alexandria  when  he  had  awakened  from  uncon- 
sciousness to  find  her  leaning  over  him,  her  hand 
upon  his  forehead;  and  suddenly  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand the  nature  of  one  of  the  veils  of  mystery 
w^hich  enwrapped  her,  and  which,  indeed,  enwraps  all 
women  who  are  true  to  their  sex.  It  is  the  veil  which 
hangs  before  the  sanctuary  of  motherhood  aglow 
with  the  inner  illumination  of  the  everlasting  wisdom 
of  maternity. 

An  overwhelming  emotion  shook  his  life  to  its 
foundations :  he  could  have  gone  down  on  his  knees 
and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  garment.  He  could  not 
trust  himself  to  speak,  but  silently  he  took  her  hand 
in  his  and  pressed  it  to  his  dry  lips. 

She  led  him  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs; 
and  presently  they  were  seated  once  more  upon  the 
bench  in  the  moonlight.  In  answer  to  his  eager 
questions,  she  told  him  in  a  low  voice  how  she  had 
hidden  herself  in  Constantinople  when  her  time  was 
approaching,  and  how  the  baby  was  born  in  a  con- 
vent-hospital. She  had  found  in  the  city  an  English 
nurse,  the  widow  of  a  soldier,  and  at  length  with  her 


THE  ISLAND  OF  FORGETFULNESS  203 

she  had  taken  ship  to  Cyprus,  and  had  rented  this 
house. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,"  she  said,  "that  there 
is  no  obligation  of  any  kind  upon  you.  Here  in 
Nicosia  there  are  a  few  English  people :  they  have 
received  me  without  question,  and  I  am  not  lonely. 
I  send  my  pictures  to  London  from  time  to  time, 
and  the  money  I  receive  for  them  is  ample  for  my 
needs.  When  my  boy  is  a  little  older  I  will  take 
him  to  some  place  in  Italy  or  France  where  he  can 
be  educated  and  I  can  paint.  Don't  think  that  there 
is  any  call  upon  you:  don't  feel  that  here  is  a  chain 
to  bind  you  .   .   ," 

He  stopped  her  with  an  excited  gesture.  "You 
don't  understand.  This  is  the  most  wonderful  thing 
that  could  possibly  have  happened  to  me.  I  want 
you  to  let  me  stay  on  at  the  hotel,  and  come  over  to 
see  you  every  day.  .  .  .  May  I  come  to-morrow 
morning? — I  must  see  that  boy  when  he's  awake. 
My  son!  He's  my  son!  Good  Lord! — I've  never 
felt  so  all  up  in  the  air  before." 

A  sudden  thought  frenzied  him.  If  only  he  had 
known  her  address,  or  she  had  known  his,  his  dis- 
astrous marriage  would  never  have  taken  place.  He 
would  have  married  Monime,  and  ultimately  this 
little  son  of  theirs  would  have  been  the  Tundering- 
West  of  Eversfield  Manor.  But  now,  the  boy  was 
nameless,  and  the  inheritance  was  gone  as  the  price 
of  freedom. 

"Oh,  Monime,"  he  cried.  "How  can  you  ever 
forgive  me?  Oh,  why,  why  didn't  I  cable  to  you 
after  I  left  Egypt? — why  didn't  wc  keep  in  touch?" 

He  paced  to  and  fro,  running  his  lingers  through 


204  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

his  dark  hair  and  pulling  at  it  so  that  it  fell  over 
his  forehead.  His  eyes  were  wild,  and  his  face 
looked  white  and  haggard  in  the  moonlight. 

"The  fault  was  as  much  mine  as  yours,"  she  de- 
clared. "It  was  just  Bedouin  love,  and  we  let  it 
slip  from  us.  We  dreamed  our  dreams,  and  in  the 
morning  we  went  our  ways,  like  the  tramps  that  we 
are.  And  then  when  I  found  that  I  had  need  of  you, 
it  was  too  late  .  .  ." 

"But  now  we  must  make  up  for  it,"  he  said.  "We 
must  never  lose  each  other  again.  I  love  you, 
Monime.  I  believe  I  have  always  loved  you,  some- 
where at  the  back  of  my  mind." 

She  smiled  the  wise  smile  of  the  old  gods.  "It  was 
four  years  ago,"  she  said,  "and  our  little  dream  was 
so  short.   In  a  way  we  are  strangers  to  one  another." 

Presently  she  rose,  and  told  him  that  he  must 
go.     "The  hotel  keeps  early  hours,"  she  said. 

She  led  him  to  the  door  of  the  garden,  but  to 
his  fervent  adieux  she  gave  no  great  response.  The 
expression  on  her  face  was  placid  once  more,  and  his 
excited  senses  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

He  walked  down  the  silent,  media?val  street  obliv- 
ious to  his  surroundings.  Behind  a  shuttered  window 
there  were  sounds  of  the  rhythmic  beating  of  a 
tambourine  and  the  twanging  of  some  sort  of 
stringed  instrument;  but  he  heeded  them  not.  A 
cloaked  and  hooded  figure,  leaning  upon  a  staff, 
passed  him,  and  bade  him  "Good-night"  in  Arabic; 
but  he  did  not  respond.  He  entered  the  hotel,  and 
walked  up  the  steps  to  his  bedroom  without  any 
real  consciousness  of  his  actions. 

His  whole  being  was,  as  it  were,  in  an  uproar,  and 


THE  ISLAND  OF  FORGETP^ULNESS  205 

his  emotions  were  playing  riot  with  his  reason.  He 
had  chanced  again  upon  the  woman  he  had  loved 
and  almost  forgotten,  the  woman  he  ought  to  have 
married;  and  suddenly  the  great  miracle  had  been 
wrought  within  him,  and  he  was  deeply,  wildly, 
madly  in  love  with  her.  She  was  the  mother  of  his 
son — his  son,  his  son,  his  son! 

Over  and  over  again,  he  repeated  it  to  himself, 
and  the  words  seemed  to  go  roaring  like  a  tempest 
through  the  crowded  halls  of  his  thoughts.  But 
presently,  as  he  sat  upon  the  foot  of  his  bed,  new 
whirlwinds  of  actuality  came  to  the  assault,  and 
scattered  the  shouting  multitude  of  his  dreams. 

If  he  married  Monime  he  would  be  a  bigamist, 
and  within  the  reach  of  the  law.  If  he  told  her  that 
he  was  married  he  might  lose  her  for  ever.  Even 
if  he  kept  his  real  identity  a  secret,  and  risked  de- 
tection, the  fact  remained  that  he  had  thrown  away 
his  home  and  his  fortune,  and  had  nothing  in  pros- 
pect when  his  present  means  were  exhausted. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  early  days  of  his 
inheritance  he  realized  the  value  of  the  property  to 
which  he  had  succeeded,  he  realized  the  merit  of 
the  name  he  had  abandond.  In  later  years  how 
could  he  ever  look  his  son  in  the  face,  and  tell  him 
of  the  home  and  income  that  had  been  thrown  away? 
\'et  if  he  kept  his  secret,  how  could  he  endure  to 
live  daily  to  Monime  a  fundamental  lie? 

Bitterly  he  reproached  himself  for  his  past  actions. 
Bitterly  he  cursed  Dolly  for  her  part  in  the  dilemma, 
rhere  seemed  no  way  out  of  the  mess;  and  far  into 
the  night  he  sat  with  his  head  resting  upon  his 
hands,  his  fingers  deep  in  his  hair. 


Chapter  XV:     WOMAN  REGNANT 

TO  Jim  the  days  which  followed  were  chaotic. 
The  whole  movement  of  his  existence 
seemed  to  be  stimulated  and  speeded  up, 
and  the  pace  of  his  thoughts  was  increased  out  of  all 
measure.  It  was  as  though  some  sort  of  drag  or 
break  had  been  removed  from  the  wheels  of  his 
being,  so  that  the  fiery  steeds  of  circumstance  were 
able  to  leap  forward  after  many  a  mile  of  heavy 
going.  From  now  henceforth  he  was  conscious  of 
a  general  acceleration,  a  new  vehemence,  even  a  sort 
of  frenzy  in  his  progress  along  the  high  road  of 
life;  and,  in  consequence,  his  impressions  were  re- 
ceived with  less  observation  of  detail. 

In  the  high  passion  of  love  there  is  no  peace  of 
mind  and  little  satisfaction.  The  lover  can  never 
believe  that  he  is  loved,  yet  his  happiness  seems  to 
him  to  depend  on  that  assurance.  His  anxiety  haunts 
him,  fevers  him,  and  lays  siege  as  it  were  to  his 
very  soul. 

The  true  lover  makes  more  abundant  acquaintance 
with  hell  than  with  heaven.  So  sensitive  is  his  con- 
dition that  every  moment  not  rich  with  his  lady's 
obvious  adoration  is  a  moment  impoverished  by 
doubts  and  fears.  She  is  not  so  interested  in  him  as 
she  was,  he  thinks;  she  is  bored;  she  is  cold  to-day; 
she  is  thinking  of  something  else;  she  does  not  sur- 
render herself  impetuously  as  she  would  if  she  really 

206 


WOMAN  REGNANT  207 

cared.  So  says  the  wretched  lover  in  his  heart,  and 
so  he  gives  himself  over  to  the  legion  of  ten  thousand 
devils. 

Monime  mamtained  towards  Jim  a  quiet  and 
tantalizing  reserve.  Mentally  she  seemed  to  be 
upon  the  mountain-top,  and  he  in  the  valley  below. 
When  he  visited  her  at  her  house  she  kept  him 
waiting  before  she  made  her  appearance:  it  was  as 
though  she  were  not  eager  to  see  him.  Women  have 
this  in  common  with  the  feline  race:  they  seem  so 
often  to  be  intent  upon  some  hidden  pursuit.  They 
go  their  own  way,  bide  their  own  time,  and  no  man 
may  know  the  secret  of  their  doings.  No  man  may 
be  initiated  into  their  mysteries;  and  that  which 
occupies  them  upstairs  before  they  descend  to  greet 
him  is  beyond  his  ken. 

Like  a  number  of  men,  Jim's  character  was 
marked  by  a  certain  simplicity.  He  made  no  secret 
of  his  love:  it  was  apparent  in  his  every  gesture. 
The  only  secret  which  he  maintained  was  that  of  his 
marriage,  lest  he  should  lose  her,  and  in  this  regard 
he  lied  to  an  extent  which  brought  misery  to  his 
heart.  He  gave  her  to  understand  that  the  property 
he  had  inherited  had  proved  to  be  of  no  great  value, 
and  that  the  little  money  he  now  possessed  was  all 
that  remained  of  its  proceeds. 

He  desired  to  forget  the  years  at  Eversfield 
utterly,  and  to  live  only  in  the  present.  To  Monime 
he  had  always  been  Jim  Easton,  and  the  fact  that 
she  had  not  so  much  as  heard  the  names  Tundering- 
West  or  Eversfield  aided  Jiim  in  his  deception.  Yet 
in  his  own  heart  his  marriage  to  Dolly  and  the 
change   of   identity  by  which   he   had   effected   his 


2o8  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

escape  were  become  the  two  appalling  mistakes 
which  shut  him  off  from  Monime  and  their  son. 

The  little  boy  proved  to  be  all  that  he  could  wish. 
He  was  about  three  and  a-half  years  of  age,  and  was 
in  the  midst  of  that  first  great  phase  of  inquiry  which 
is  the  introduction  to  the  school  of  life.  He  used 
the  word  "why"  a  hundred  times  a  day;  his  large 
eyes  stared  in  wondering  contemplation  at  every 
object  which  newly  came  into  his  ken;  and  his 
fingers  were  ever  busy  with  experiment. 

It  is  a  trying  age  for  the  "grown-up";  but  Jim, 
not  having  too  much  of  it,  enjoyed  it,  and  enjoyed 
watching  Monime's  handling  of  the  situation. 

Her  attitude  towards  himself  during  the  first 
days,  however,  was  the  cause  of  many  a  heartache. 
There  was  a  curious  expression  on  her  face  as  she 
watched  him  playing  with  the  boy:  it  was  at  first  as 
though  she  did  not  recognize  his  parental  position, 
nor  regard  him  as  being  in  any  way  essential  to  the 
domestic  alliance.  She  seemed  to  be  anxious  as  to 
his  influence  upon  the  child,  and  when  once  he  made 
the  jesting  assertion  that  parents  should  not  try  to 
be  a  good  example  to  their  offspring,  but  rather  an 
awful  warning,  she  did  not  laugh. 

The  possession  of  a  son  was  the  source  of  the 
most  intense  satisfaction  to  him;  but  Monime 
seemed  at  first  to  be  endeavouring  to  check  his  be- 
lated enthusiasm.  Sometimes  she  appeared  to  him, 
indeed,  as  a  lioness  protecting  her  cub  from  an 
interfering  lion,  and  cuffing  the  intruder  over  the 
head  with  a  not  too  gentle  paw.  She  seemed  to 
claim  the  boy  as  her  own  exclusive  property,  and 
she  allowed  Jim  no  free  access  to  the  nursery,  nor 


WOMAN  REGNANT  209 

indeed  to  the  house.  There  were  days  upon  which 
the  door  was  closed  to  him  on  one  pretext  or 
another;  and  at  such  times  he  experienced  a  variety 
of  emotions,  all  of  which  were  violent  and  passionate. 

"People  will  talk,"  she  would  say,  "if  you  come 
here  so  often,  Jim.  I  am  not  independent  of  the 
world  as  I  used  to  be :  I  have  the  boy  to  consider." 

She  had  called  the  child  Ian,  which,  she  said,  was 
the  name  of  her  father;  and  the  fact  that  she  had 
thus  excluded  him  from  a  nomenclatural  identity  with 
the  boy  was  a  source  to  him  of  recurrent  mortifica- 
tion. His  son  should  have  been  James,  or  Stephen, 
or  Mark,  like  his  ancestors  before  him:  it  filled  his 
heart  with  bitter  remorse  that  the  little  chap  should 
be  merely  "Ian  Smith." 

Gradually,  however,  Monime  became  more  ac- 
customed to  his  association  with  the  boy;  and  at 
length  there  came  a  memorable  occasion  on  which 
they  sat  together  beside  his  cot  for  the  best  part 
of  the  night  and  nursed  him  through  an  alarming 
feverish  attack.  It  was  then  that  Jim  saw  in  her 
face  an  expression  of  tenderness  towards  him  which 
was  like  water  to  the  thirsty. 

"You  know,"  he  said  to  her,  as  they  walked  in 
the  garden  together  in  the  cool  of  the  daybreak, 
"this  is  the  first  time  you  have  let  me  feel  that  I 
have  anything  to  do  with  Ian.  I  have  been  very 
hurt." 

She  turned  on  him  vehemently.  "Oh,  don't  you 
understand,"  she  said,  "that  your  coming  back  into 
my  life  like  this  is  very  hard  for  mc  to  bear?  I 
don't  want  you  to  feel  yourself  tied  down.  I  am 
perfectly  capable  of  looking  after  myself  and  my 


210  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

boy  without  your  help.  You  have  set  a  struggle 
going  in  my  mind  that  is  distracting  me.  There 
is  one  side  of  me  which  resents  your  interference, 
because  you  are  just  a  wanderer,  perfectly  capable 
of  walking  off  once  more  with  hardly  a  farewell. 
There  is  another  side  which  finds  a  sort  of  sneaking 
comfort  in  your  presence,  and  endows  you  with 
virtues  you  probably  don't  possess.  I  was  self- 
reliant  until  you  came.  Now  I  am  swayed  this  way 
and  that.  At  one  moment  I  think  I  was  wrong,  and 
that  we  ought  to  be  married  and  ought  to  go  to 
some  country  where  we  are  unknown,  so  that  we  can 
explain  our  child  by  pretending  our  marriage  took 
place  secretly  four  years  ago.  At  another  moment 
I  remember  that  you  have  not  suggested  marriage 
to  me,  and  that  therefore  you  probably  realize  as 
well  as  I  do  your  unfittedness  for  the  role  of  hus- 
band. And  then  there's  the  constant  feeling  of  the 
unfairness  of  making  you  share,  at  this  stage,  the 
responsibilities  I  undertook  of  my  own  free  will 
at  Alexandria." 

"It  was  my  doing  as  much  as  yours,"  he  replied. 

"No,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile.  "Any  woman 
worth  her  salt  handles  those  sorts  of  situations,  and 
makes  up  her  own  mind.  Man  proposes,  woman 
disposes.  The  whole  thing  is  in  the  woman's 
hands:  to  think  otherwise  is  to  insult  my  sex.  Men 
and  women  are  both  pieces  in  Nature's  game;  but 
Nature  is  a  woman,  and  she  works  out  her  plans 
through  her  own  sex." 

She  sat  down  upon  the  stone  bench,  and,  with 
hands  folded,  gazed  up  to  the  dawning  glory  of  the 
sunrise.      It   was   as   though   she   were   a   conscious 


WOMAN  REGNANT  211 

daughter  of  Hathor,  Mother  of  all  things,  looking 
for  guidance  in  her  perplexity.  Jim  seated  himself 
by  her  side,  and  for  some  time  there  was  silence 
between  them,  though  his  brain  seemed  to  him  to  be 
full  of  the  clamour  of  shackled  words  and  in- 
carcerated emotions. 

Her  reference  to  their  marriage  had  pierced  his 
heart  as  with  a  sharp  sword.  He  desired  to  make 
her  his  wife  more  intensely  than  ever  he  had  desired 
anything  in  his  life  before;  yet  he  was  unable  to  do 
so.  He  wanted  to  possess  her,  to  have  the  right  to 
protect  her,  to  be  able  to  dedicate  his  whole  entity 
to  her  service;  yet  he  was  tied  hand  and  foot,  and 
could  make  no  such  proposal. 

He  felt  ashamed,  exasperated,  and  thwarted;  and 
suddenly  springing  to  his  feet,  he  swung  about  on  his 
heel,  kicked  viciously  at  the  bushes,  and  swore  a 
round,  hearty  oath. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked  in  surprise. 
"Has  something  stung  you?" 

He  laughed  crazily.  "Yes,  I'm  stung  all  over," 
he  cried.  "There  are  a  hundred  serpents  with  all 
their  flaming  fangs  in  me.     I  think  I'm  going  mad." 

He  paced  to  and  fro,  tearing  at  his  hair;  and 
when  at  length  he  resumed  his  seat  he  seized  both 
her  hands  in  his,  and  frenziedly  kissed  her  every 
finger. 

"I'm  on  fire,"  he  gasped.  "I  believe  my  heart  is 
a  roaring  furnace.  I  must  be  full  of  blazing  light 
inside;  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  tliink  I  shall  drop 
down  dead  with  longing  for  you,  Monime.  Then 
you'll  have  to  bury  me;  but  I  tell  you  there'll  be  a 
volcanic  eruption  above  my  grave,  and  flames  will 


212  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

issue  forth  from  my  bare  bones.  I  don't  believe 
Death  itself  could  extinguish  me:  my  love  will  burst 
out  in  fearful  torrents  of  lava,  and  the  whole  earth 
will  tremble  at  my  convulsions.  I  shall  come  to 
you  again  in  earthquakes  and  tidal  waves  and  a 
falling  rain  of  comets.  I  shall  blow  the  whole  blasted 
world  to  smithereens  before  I  go  roaring  into 
hell.  .  .  .  That's  how  I  feel !  That's  what  you've 
done  to  me  1" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and,  holding  her  crushed 
and  powerless  to  resist,  poured  out  his  love  for  her 
in  wild  desperate  words,  his  face  close  to  hers.  The 
sun  was  rising,  and  the  first  rays  of  golden  light  were 
flung  upon  the  tops  of  the  surrounding  houses  and 
trees  while  yet  the  garden  was  blue  with  the  shadow 
of  the  vanishing  night. 

"Don't  Jim,"  she  whispered.  "For  God's  sake, 
don't !  We've  got  to  be  sensible.  We've  got  to 
think  what's  best  for  Ian.  Give  me  a  chance  to 
think." 

"I  want  you,"  he  cried.  "I  want  you  more  than 
any  man  has  ever  wanted  anything.  You  belong  to 
me :  you're  my  wife  in  the  eyes  of  God.  I  want  you 
to  marry  me  .   .   ." 

He  had  said  it! — he  had  uttered  the  impossible 
thing;  and  his  heart  stood  still  with  anguish.  His 
arms  loosened  their  hold  upon  her,  and  they  faced 
one  another  in  silence,  while  a  thousand  sparrows 
in  the  tree-tops  chattered  their  merry  morning  salu- 
tation to  the  sun. 

"Cad!  Cad!  Cad!"  said  the  voice  of  his  out- 
raged  conscience   to   him.      "Bigamist   and   thief!" 


WOMAN  REGNANT  213 

And  his  heart  responded  with  the  one  reiterated 
excuse:  "I  love  her,  I  love  her!" 

"You  must  give  me  time  to  think,"  she  said  at 
length.  "Go  now,  Jim.  You  must  have  some 
sleep,  and  I  must  see  to  Ian." 

For  two  days  after  this  she  would  not  see  him, 
but  on  the  third  day,  at  mid-morning,  he  found 
himself  once  more  in  her  drawing-room.  It  was 
a  charming  room,  cool  and  airy;  and  it  had  a  dis- 
tinction which  his  own  drawing-room  at  Eversfield 
had  lamentably  lacked.  Dolly  had  been  a  victim 
of  the  nepotistic  practice  of  loading  the  tables, 
piano-top,  and  shelves  with  photographs  of  herself, 
her  friends,  and  her  relatives.  Pictures  of  this  kind 
are  well  enough  in  a  man's  study  or  a  woman's 
boudoir;  but  in  the  more  public  rooms  they  are  only 
to  be  tolerated,  if  at  all,  in  thp  smallest  quantity. 
Monime,  however,  whether  by  design  or  by  force 
of  circumstances,  was  free  of  this  habit;  and  the 
more  subtle  essence  of  her  personality  was  thus  able 
to  be  enjoyed  without  distraction. 

The  walls  were  whitewashed  and  panelled  with 
old  Persian  textiles;  carpets  of  Karamania  and 
Smyrna  lay  upon  the  stone-paved  floors;  the  light 
furniture  was  covered  with  fine  fabrics  of  local 
manufacture;  and  in  Cyprian  vases  a  mass  of  flowers 
greeted  the  eye  with  a  hundred  chromatic  gradations 
and  scented  the  air  with  the  fragrance  of  summer. 

IVIonime,  upon  this  occasion,  had  reverted  to  her 
accustomed  serenity  of  manner;  and  as  she  re- 
freshed her  distracted  lover  with  sandwiches  of 
goat's-milk  cheese  and  the  wine  of  the  island  poured 


214  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

from  a  Cyprian  jug,  she  talked  to  him  quietly  of 
practical  things. 

She  argued  frankly  for  and  against  their  marriage, 
and  reviewed  the  financial  aspect  of  the  question 
without  embarrassment.  She  told  him  that  she  had 
just  received  a  proposal  from  her  salesman  in  Lon- 
don that  she  should  go  over  to  Egypt  at  once  and 
paint  him  a  dozen  desert  subjects,  there  being  a 
readier  market  for  these  than  for  pictures  of  little- 
known  Cyprus.  This,  therefore,  she  intended  to  do; 
and,  in  view  of  lan's  health,  she  proposed  to  send 
the  boy  and  his  nurse  to  England,  there  to  await 
her  return  in  four  or  five  months'  time. 

Jim  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair  as  she  spoke,  for 
the  thought  of  revisiting  England  was  terrifying  to 
him;  yet  if  she  went  there  he  could  hardly  resist  the 
temptation  to  follow.  He  knew  that  it  was  pre- 
posterous enough  to  think  of  a  bigamous  marriage 
to  her,  even  here  in  the  East,  but  in  England  such  a 
union  would  be  madness. 

"I  thought,"  he  said  gloomily,  "that  you  did  not 
want  to  risk  meeting  your  former  friends." 

"What  does  it  matter  now?"  she  replied.  "The 
scandal  of  my  leaving  my  husband  is  forgotten,  and 
he,  poor  man,  is  dead.  I  have  never  told  you  his 
name,  have  I?  He  was  Richard  Furnice,  the 
banker." 

Jim  glanced  up  quickly.  "I  know  the  name,"  he 
said,  with  simplicity,  for  w^ho  did  not?  "But  I 
don't  remember  ever  reading  of  his  domestic 
troubles." 

"No,"  she  replied.  "The  scandal  was  kept  out 
of  the  papers.     He  was  as  successful  in  explaining 


WOMAN  REGNANT  215 

away  my  absence  as  he  had  been  in  explaining  away 
the  presence  of  his  mistress.  Yes,"  she  added,  in 
answer  to  his  look  of 'inquiry,  "he  led  the  usual 
double  life." 

"Very  rich,  wasn't  he?"  Jim,  asked. 

"Yes,  very,"  she  answered.  "But  I  have  never 
cared  much  about  money.  I  have  always  agreed 
with  the  man  who  said  'Wealth  is  acquired  by  over- 
reaching our  neighbors,  and  is  spent  in  insulting 
them.'  " 

"I  like  money  well  enough,"  said  Jim,  "but  I've 
never  been  much  good  at  earning  it." 

She  asked  him  why  he  did  not  send  some  of  his 
verses  to  a  publisher  in  England,  and  talked  to  him 
so  persuasively  in  this  regard  that  he  promised  to 
consider  doing  so. 

"But  if  you  return  to  England,"  he  said,  return- 
ing to  the  problem  before  him,  "are  there  none  of 
your  relations  who  will  make  it  awkward  for  you 
and  Ian?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "My  father  died  several 
years  ago,  and  I  was  the  only  child.  We  have  no 
close  relations.  You  now  may  as  well  know  his 
name,  too.  He  was  Sir  Ian  Valory,  the  African 
explorer." 

Jim  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Why,  he  was  one 
of  my  heroes  as  a  boy,"  he  declared.  "I  read  his 
books  over  and  over  again.  This  is  wonderful ! — tell 
mc  more." 

But  as  she  did  so,  there  arose  a  new  clamour  in 
his  brain.  He  longed  to  be  abU-  to  tell  licr  that  his 
own  blood  was  fit  to  match  with  hers.  The  Tun- 
dcring-Wests  stood  higii  in  the  annals  of  cxnloration 


2i6  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

and  adventure :  his  ancestors  had  roamed  the  world, 
as  Knights  of  the  Cross,  as  King's  Envoys,  as 
Constables  of  frontier  castles,  as  Admirals  of  Eng- 
land. He  himself  was  blood  of  their  blood,  and 
bone  of  their  bone;  and  his  son  combined  this  high 
heritage  with  that  of  Valory. 

Yet  the  secret  must  be  kept.  Bitter  was  his  regret 
that  so  it  must  be,  thrice  bitter  his  remorse  that  this 
son  of  his  was  a  bastard.  A  Tundcring-West  and 
a  Valory! — and  the  issue  of  that  illustrious  union  a 
child  without  a  name,  hidden  away  in  the  Island  of 
Forgetfulness  I ! 

He  went  back  to  the  hotel  that  day  cursing  Fate 
for  its  irony,  hating  himself  for  a  fool.  Then,  of  a 
sudden,  there  came  a  possible  solution  into  his  be- 
wildered thoughts.  Monime  was  going  to  Egypt  for 
some  months :  could  he  not  return  to  England,  reveal 
the  fact  of  his  existence  to  his  wife,  and  oblige  her 
to  divorce  him?  The  proceedings  could  be  con- 
ducted quietly,  and  Monime,  unaware  of  his  real 
name,  would  not  identify  him  with  them.  He  could 
return  to  her  a  free  man,  able  to  marry  her,  and  in 
later  years  he  could  tell  her  the  whole  story. 

Yet  how  could  he  bear  the  long  absence  from  her, 
how  could  he  face  the  terror  that  she  might  find  out 
and  reject  him?  "O  God,"  he  cried  in  his  heart, 
"I  am  punished  for  my  foolishness!  You  have 
belaboured  me  enough :  You,  Whom  they  call  merci- 
ful, have  mercy!" 

During  the  next  few  days  Jim  made  a  final  ar- 
rangement of  his  poems,  and,  adding  a  title-page: 
Songs  of  the  Highroad,  by  James  Easton,  posted 
them  off  to  a  well-known  publisher  in  London,  giving 


WOMAN  REGNANT  217 

his  bank  in  Rome  as  his  address.  While  reading 
through  these  collected  manuscripts  he  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  poems  were  rather  good. 
"There's  quite  a  swing  about  some  of  the  stuff,"  he 
said  to  Monime.  "In  fact  I  almost  believe  I  could 
have  shown  you  one  or  two  of  them  without  feeling 
an  ass.  But  I  suppose  the  thoughts  in  them,  and 
the  melancholy  speculations  about  what  is  one's  'duty' 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  are  rather  rot." 

As  time  passed,  the  idea  of  returning  to  England 
and  obtaining  a  divorce  developed  in  his  mind. 
He  was  reluctant,  however,  to  make  a  final  decision, 
and  his  plans  remained  fluid  long  after  those  of 
Monime  had  crystallized.  This  was  due  mainly  to 
the  suspense  he  was  experiencing  in  regard  to  his 
relations  with  her.  He  avoided  any  pressing  of  the 
question  of  their  marriage,  for  he  shunned  the 
thought  of  involving  her  in  a  possible  bigamy  case; 
yet  he  could  see  that  so  long  as  he  maintained  this 
inconclusive  attitude  he  gave  her  no  cause  for  confi- 
dence in  him. 

Matters  came  to  a  head  one  day  at  the  end  of 
October.  Monime  had  arranged  with  him  to  make 
the  excursion  to  the  mountain  castle  of  St.  Hilarion; 
and  it  is  probable  that  both  he  and  she  had  decided 
to  talk  things  out  during  the  hours  they  would  be 
together.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  at  any  rate, 
the  situation  as  It  stood  was  impossible. 

The  carriage  in  which  they  were  to  make  this 
fifteen-mile  journey  resembled  a  barouche,  but  a 
kind  of  awning  was  stretched  above  it  on  four  iron 
rods,  and  from  this  depended  some  dusty-looking 
curtains  looped  back  by  faded  red  cords  and  tassels, 


2i8  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

which  might  have  been  purloined  from  old  men's 
dressing-gowns.  Four  lean  and  crazily  harnessed 
horses  were  attached  to  this  vehicle,  which  looked 
somewhat  like  a  four-poster  bed  on  wheels;  and  a 
red-capped  and  baggy-trousered  driver,  apparently 
of  Turkish  nationality,  sat  high  upon  the  box, 
Monime's   man-servant   being  perched   beside   him. 

Rattling  down  the  narrow  streets  of  the  city  and 
through  the  tunnel  in  the  ramparts,  they  soon  passed 
out  into  the  open  country,  and,  with  loudly  cracking 
whip,  bowled  along  the  sun-bathed  road  at  a  very 
fair  pace,  the  sparkling  morning  air  seeming  to  put 
vigour  even  into  the  emaciated  horses. 

At  length  they  came  to  the  foot-hills,  and  saw  far 
above  them,  against  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky,  the 
pass  which  leads  through  the  mountains  to  the  port 
of  Kyrenia  and  the  sea.  Here  their  pace  grew 
slower,  and  from  time  to  time  they  walked  beside 
the  labouring  vehicle  as  it  crunched  its  way  through 
soft  gravel  and  sand,  or  lurched  over  half-buried 
boulders. 

Reaching  level  ground  once  more  they  went  with 
a  fine  flourish  through  a  village  where  the  dogs 
barked  at  them  and  the  children  stared  or  ran  beg- 
ging at  their  side.  Now  the  slopes  and  ledges  of 
rock  were  green  with  young  pines,  whose  aromatic 
scent  filled  the  warm  air;  and,  as  they  slowly  wound 
their  way  upwards,  the  size  of  these  trees  increased 
until  they  attained  truly  majestic  proportions. 

Towards  noon  they  entered  the  pass,  and  Jim  and 
Monime  were  afoot  once  more,  whilst  the  tired 
horses  rested.  Behind  them  the  gorges  and  valleys 
carried  the  eye  down  into  the  hazy  distances,  and 


WOiMAN  REGNANT  219 

they  could  see  Nicosia  lying  like  a  white  cameo  upon 
the  velvet  of  the  plains.  Before  them  a  cleft  in  the 
towering  rocks  revealed  the  azure  expanse  of  the 
Mediterranean,  and  beyond  it  the  far-off  coasts  of 
Asia  Minor,  rising  like  the  vision  of  a  dream  from 
the  placid  ocean. 

Monime  shaded  her  eyes  as  she  gazed  over  the 
sea.  "There  is  Phrygia,"  she  exclaimed,  "where 
Monime  lived,  and  Cappadocia  and  Cilicia  !  And 
away  behind  them  is  Pontus,  the  land  her  husband 
took  her  to   .   .   ." 

"I  hav^e  no  home  to  take  you  to,  Monime,"  he 
said,  unable  to  eschew  the  hazardous  subject  of  their 
marriage. 

"That's  just  as  well,"  she  answered,  "because  in 
the  story,  you  remember,  he  involved  her  in  his 
domestic  troubles,  which  led  to  his  suicide,  and  her 
own  death  followed." 

She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  but  to  him  her  words 
were  dark  with  portentous  meaning.  He  felt  like 
a  criminal. 

Entering  the  carriage  once  more,  they  descended 
from  the  pass  for  some  distance,  as  though  making 
for  Kyrenia,  which  they  could  see  far  below  them; 
but  presently  a  rough  track  led  them  through  the 
pines,  and  brought  them  at  last  to  the  foot  of  a 
tremendous  bluff  of  rock,  upon  the  summit  of  which 
stood  the  ruined  walls  and  towers  of  the  castle  of 
St.  Hilarion.  Here  the  carriage  was  abandoned, 
and  hand-in-hand  they  clambercil  up  the  track,  the 
servant  following  with  the  luncheon  basket. 

Soon  they  passed  within  the  ruinous  walls  of  the 
castle,   and,   having   rested   in   the   shade   and   eaten 


220  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

their  picnic  meal,  made  their  way  amongst  fallen 
stones  and  a  profusion  of  weeds  and  grasses  towards 
the  main  buildings,  which  mounted  up  the  cliffs  in 
front  of  them  in  a  confused  array  of  walls  and 
turrets,  roofs  and  chimneys,  battlements  and 
bastions,  standing  silent  and  withered  in  a  blaze  of 
sunlight. 

Through  a  crumbling  door  they  went,  and  up  a 
flight  of  broken  steps;  through  the  ruined  chapel,  on 
the  walls  of  which  the  faded  frescoes  could  still  be 
seen;  along  a  shadowed  passage,  and  up  again  by  a 
rock-hewn  stairway;  until  at  last  they  reached  a 
roofless  chamber  locally  known  as  the  Queen's 
Apartment. 

This  side  of  the  castle,  which  was  built  at  the  edge 
of  an  appalling  precipice,  seemed  to  be  clinging 
perilously  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain;  and 
through  the  broken  tracery  of  the  Gothic  windows 
they  looked  down  In  awe  to  the  pine  forests  two 
thousand  feet  below.  All  about  them  the  bold 
mountain  peaks  rose  up  from  the  shadowed  and 
mysterious  valleys  near  the  coastline;  and  before 
them  the  purple  and  azure  sea  was  spread,  divided 
from  the  cloudless  sky  by  the  hazy  hills  of  Asia 
Minor. 

From  these  valleys  there  rose  to  their  ears  the 
frail  and  far-off  tinkle  of  goats'  bells,  and  some- 
times the  song  of  a  shepherd  was  lifted  up  to  them 
upon  the  tender  wings  of  the  breeze.  All  visible 
things  seemed  to  be  motionless  in  the  warmth  of 
the  afternoon,  with  the  exception  only  of  two  vul- 
tures, which  slowly  circled  in  mid-air  with  trancjull 
pinions  extended.     It  was  as  though  the  crumbling 


WOMAN  REGNANT  221 

stones  of  the  castle,  and  the  forests  and  valleys  they 
surmounted,  were  deep  in  an  enchanted  slumber, 
from  which  they  would  never  again  awake. 

Here  at  these  walls  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  King 
of  England,  with  trumpets  had  summoned  the  gar- 
rison to  surrender;  but  the  walls  remembered  it  no 
more.  Here  the  Kings  and  Queens  of  Cyprus,  of  the 
House  of  Lusignan,  had  held  their  court  in  that 
strange  admixture  of  Western  chivalry  and  Eastern 
splendour  which  had  characterized  the  dynasty;  but 
the  glamour  of  those  days  was  passed  into  oblivion. 
Here  the  soldiers  of  Venice  had  looted  and  plun- 
dered ;  but  the  ruin  they  left  behind  them  had  steeped 
Its  wounds  in  the  balm  of  forgetfulncss. 

Only  Monime  and  her  lover  were  awake  in  this 
place  of  dreams.  Seated  here,  as  it  were,  upon  a 
throne  rising  in  the  very  centre  of  the  ancient  world, 
she  seemed  to  Jim  to  be  one  with  all  the  dim,  for- 
gotten queens  of  the  past;  all  the  romance  of  all  the 
pages  of  history  was  focussed  and  brought  again  to 
life  in  her  person;  and  in  her  face  there  was  the 
mystery  of  regnant  womanhood  throughout  the  ages. 

Just  as  now  she  sat  with  her  chin  resting  upon  her 
hand,  gazing  over  the  summer  seas  to  the  adventur- 
ous coasts  of  the  ancient  kingdoms  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, so  Arsinoe  had  gazed,  perhaps  upon  this 
very  mountain-top;  so  Cleopatra,  her  sister,  had 
gazed,  over  there  in  her  Alexandrian  palace;  so 
Helen  had  gazed  yonder  from  the  casements  of 
Troy;  so  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  camping  upon  Leba- 
non, had  gazed  as  she  travelled  from  Jerusalem. 
The  past  was  forgotten;  but,  all  unknowing,  it  lived 
again  in  Monime,  enticing  him  with  her  lips,  looking 


222  Bi.DOUlX    LOVE 

tenderly  upon  him  with  her  eyes,  beckoning  him  with 
her  smiles,  repulsing  him  with  her  indifference,  be- 
wildering him  with  her  serenity,  maddening  him 
with  her  unfathomable  heart. 

"Monime,  I  can't  go  on  like  this,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hands  In  his.  "You  must  tell  me  here  and  now 
that  you  love  me,  or  that  I  am  to  go  out  of  your 
life." 

"The  future  lies  in  your  hands,  Jim,"  she  an- 
swered, quietly  and  with  deep  sincerity.  "Surely 
you  can  understand  my  attitude.  I  will  not  bind 
myself  to  a  man  who  will  not  be  bound,  even  though 
I  were  to  love  him  with  all  my  soul." 

"I  have  asked  you  to  marry  me,"  he  told  her. 

"Your  words  carried  no  conviction,"  she  replied. 

"I  ask  you  again,"  he  said,  daring  all. 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,"  she 
answered.  "Go  away  to  England,  or  to  Italy,  Jim, 
and  think  it  over.  Stay  away  from  me  for  some 
months;  and  if  you  find  that  your  feelings  do  not 
change,  if  I  remain  a  vital  thing  in  your  life  and  do 
not  fade  into  a  memory,  then  you  can  come  back  to 
me,  knowing  that  I  will  not  fail  you.  We  have 
had  enough  of  Bedouin  love.  If  I  were  to  be  honest 
with  myself  I  would  tell  you  that  long  ago  circum- 
stances made  me  realize  that  we  did  wrong  at 
Alexandria,  because  we  were  unfair  to  the  unborn 
generation.  I  set  myself  in  opposition  to  accepted 
custom,  and  I  have  been  beaten  by  just  one  thing — 
my  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  the  child  my  emanci- 
pation brought  me,  my  terror  in  case  there  should 
be  a  slur  upon  his  name.  There  must  be  no  more 
playing  with  vital  things." 

r 


WOMAN  REGNANT  223 

Her  suggestion  that  he  should  go  away  from  her 
for  some  months,  while  she  worked  in  Egypt  on  her 
desert  pictures,  came  to  him  like  the  voice  of  Provi- 
dence, offering  to  him  the  opportunity  to  carry  out 
his  plan  for  ridding  himself  once  and  for  all  of 
Dolly  by  divorce;  and  his  mind  was  made  up  on 
the  instant. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "I'll  go  away — though  not 
because  I  feel  the  slightest  doubt  about  my  love  for 
you.  I'll  go  to  Larnaca  to-morrow:  some  people 
from  the  hotel  are  going  then,  so  as  to  catch  the 
steamer  the  day  after  .   .   ." 

She  interrupted  him.  "Oh  Jim,  must  it  be  to- 
morrow?" 

He  looked  up  quickly  at  her.  "Do  you  care?'* 
he  asked,  eagerly. 

She  had  begun  to  reply,  and  he  was  hanging  upon 
her  words,  when  the  native  servant  made  his  appear- 
ance. Jim  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head  in  a  frenzy 
of  exasperation.  "Confound  you! — what  do  you 
want?"  he  shouted  to  the  man. 

"I  suppose  he's  come  to  tell  us  it's  high  time  to 
be  going,"  said  Monimc,  laughing  in  his  face. 

Jim  picked  up  a  stone  and  hurled  it  viciously  over 
the  wall  into  the  void  beyond.  He  would  willingly 
have  leapt  upon  the  inoffensive  servant  and  tlirottled 
him  where  he  stood. 


Chapter  XVI:     THE  RETURN 

THUS  it  came  about  that  Jim  took  ship  back 
to  Trieste,  leaving  Monime  and  Ian  to  go 
the  following  week  to  Alexandria,  whence 
the  boy  and  his  nurse  would  journey  by  a  P.  and  O. 
liner  direct  to  England. 

It  was  a  blustering  evening  in  early  November 
when  he  arrived  In  London,  and  to  his  sad  heart 
the  streets  through  which  he  passed  and  the  small 
hotel  where  he  was  to  stay  were  dreary  in  the  ex- 
treme. His  brain  was  full  of  the  sunshine  of  the 
Mediterranean;  and  the  burning  passion  of  his  love 
for  Monime  seemed  to  draw  all  his  vitality  inwards, 
and  to  leave  frozen  and  desolate  that  part  of  his 
entity  which  had  to  encounter  the  immediate  world 
of  actuality. 

Upon  the  following  morning  it  rained,  and  for 
some  time  he  lay  in  bed,  staring  out  through  the 
wet  window-pane  at  the  grey  sky  and  the  grimy 
chimney  pots,  dreading  to  arise  and  meet  his  fate. 
His  first  object  was  to  find  Mrs.  Darling.  She  had 
always  been  understanding  and  sympathetic,  and 
now  she  would  perhaps  aid  him  In  his  predicament. 
The  news  that  he  was  still  alive  would  then  have  to 
be  broken  gently  to  Dolly,  and  the  situation  would 
have  to  be  handled  in  such  a  way  that  she  would  find 
it  to  her  advantage  to  divorce  him.     His  heart  sank 

as  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  very  possibly 

224 


THE  RETURN  225 

she  would  welcome  his  return  and  refuse  to  part 
from  him.  In  that  case  the  game  would  be  lost  and 
life  would  be  intolerable. 

At  the  outset,  however,  his  plans  met  with  a 
check.  An  early  visit  to  the  flat  where  Mrs.  Darling 
lived  revealed  the  fact  that  she  had  rented  it  fur- 
nished, and  the  only  address  known  to  the  present 
tenant  was  that  of  Eversfield.  This  did  not  neces- 
sarily mean  that  she  was  staying  with  her  daughter, 
and  Jim  was  left  on  the  doorstep  wondering  what 
was  the  best  way  of  getting  hold  of  her  quickly. 

A  sudden  resolve  caused  him  to  hail  a  taxi  and  to 
drive  to  Paddington  Station.  He  would  catch  the 
first  train  to  Oxford,  pay  a  surreptitious  visit  to 
Eversfield,  and  try  to  get  into  touch  with  Smiley- 
face,  his  one  friend  there.  The  poacher  would  give 
him  all  the  news,  and  would  doubtless  be  of  assist- 
ance to  him  in  various  ways;  and  his  reliability  in 
regard  to  keeping  the  secret  was  unquestionable. 
Smiley  was  a  master  of  the  art  of  secrecy. 

Jim  was  wearing  a  high-collared  raincoat  and 
a  slouch  hat,  and,  with  the  one  turned  up  and  the 
other  pulled  down,  he  would  easily  avoid  recogni- 
tion, even  if,  in  the  by-ways  he  proposed  to  follow, 
he  were  to  meet  with  anybody  of  his  acquaintance. 
And  after  all,  since  he  would  be  obliged,  in  any 
event,  to  come  back  from  the  ilead  for  the  purpose 
of  his  divorce,  an  indefinite  rumour  that  he  had 
been  seen  might  be  the  gentlest  manner  of  breaking 
the  news  to  Dolly.  He  wanted  to  spare  her  a 
sudden  shock. 

I  le  had  not  long  to  wait  for  a  train,  and  by  noon 
he  was  setting  out  across  the  muddy  fields  behind 


226  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

the  houses  of  Oxford,  munching  some  railway  sand- 
wiches as  he  went.  The  rain  had  cleared  off,  but  the 
sky  was  still  grey;  and  the  mild,  misty  atmosphere 
of  the  Thames  Valley  filled  his  heart  with  gloom 
and  brought  recollections  of  the  days  of  his  captivity 
crowding  back,  into  his  mind.  He  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  he  had  been  absent  not  much  more  than 
six  months.  He  had  lived  through  an  eternity  in 
that  brief  space. 

Nobody  was  encountered  on  the  way,  and  when 
ihe  mounted  the  last  stile,  and  stepped  into  the 
familiar  pathway  behind  the  church  at  Eversfield 
he  was  still  a  solitary  figure,  moving  like  a  ghost 
through  the  damp  mist. 

It  was  his  intention  now  to  skirt  the  village,  and 
to  walk  on  to  the  isolated  cottage  where  Smiley-face 
lived  with  old  Jenny;  but  the  silence  of  his  sur- 
roundings, and  the  death-like  stillness  of  the  little 
church,  induced  him  to  creep  across  the  graveyard 
and  to  slip  through  the  door  into  the  building. 

In  the  aisle  he  stood  for  a  while  lost  in  thought; 
while  the  old  clock  in  the  gallery  ticked  out  the 
seconds.  He  felt  as  though  he  were  a  spirit  come 
back  from  the  dead;  and,  indeed,  the  sight  of  the 
familiar  pews,  the  escutcheons,  and  the  memorial 
tablets  of  his  ancestors,  produced  in  Rim  a  sensa- 
tion such  as  a  midnight  ghost  might  feel  when  called 
out  of  death's  celestial  dream  to  walk  again  amidst 
the  scenes  of  his  misdeeds. 

Suddenly  a  new  and  shining  brass  tablet  at  the 
side  of  the  chancel  caught  his  eye;  and  he  hastened 
forward,  his  heart  beating  with  a  kind  of  dread  of 


THE  RETURN  227 

that  which  he  would  see  written  thereon  for  all  to 
read.    The  inscription  was  truly  staggering: — 

In  grateful  and  undying  memory  of  James 
Chamfernowne  Tundering-West,  Esquire, 
OF  Eversfield  Manor,  who,  after  an  unas- 
suming BUT  exemplary  LIFE,  MARKED  BY  TRUE 
CHRISTIAN  PIETY  AND  AN  UNSWERVING  DEVOTION 
TO  DUTY,  MET  AN  UNTIMELY  DEATH,  IN  THE 
FLOWER  OF  HIS  MANHOOD,  AT  THE  HAND  OF  AN 
ASSASSIN,     NEAR     PiSA,     ItaLY,    THIS    STONE    HAS 

been  set  up  by  his  sorrowing  widow,  dorothy 
Tundering-West. 

Be  thou  faithful  unto  death,  and  I  will  ffive  thee 
a  croivn  of  life. — Rev.  ii.  lo. 

"Good  Lord!"  Jim  muttered,  his  sallow  face  for 
a  moment  red  with  shame.  "And  in  face  of  this, 
I  have  got  to  come  back  to  life,  so  that  this  'sorrow- 
ing widow'  may  divorce  me,  and  thereby  empower 
me  to  give  the  name  of  Tundering-West  to  my  son 
and  leave  him  in  my  will  the  property  I  abandoned  I 
A  pretty  muddle !" 

He  turned  away,  sick  at  heart.  "O  England, 
England!"  he  whispered.  "Dear  nation  of  hypo- 
crites!— at  all  costs  keeping  up  the  pretence  so  that 
the  traditional  example  may  be  set  for  coming  gen- 
erations. .  .  .  Presently  they  will  remove  this  tab- 
let, and  instead  they  will  scrawl  across  their  mem- 
ories the  words:  'He  failed  in  his  duty,  because  he 
hid  not  his  dirty  linen.'  " 

He  almost  ran  from  the  church. 

During  the  continuation  of  his  walk  he  came 
upon  two  of  the  villagers,  but  in  each  case  he  was 
able  to  turn  to  the  hedge  as  though  searching  for 
the  last  remaining  blackberries,  and  so  avoided  a 
facc-to-face  encounter.     His  road  Icil  him  past  the 


228  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

back  of  the  woods  of  the  Manor,  those  woods 
whither  he  had  so  often  fled  for  comfort;  and  it 
occurred  to  him  that  before  walking  the  further  two 
miles  to  Jenny's  cottage  he  might  whistle  the  call 
which  used  to  bring  the  poacher  to  him  in  the  old 
days.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  misty  afternoon  on 
which  Smiley  was  wont  to  slip  in  amongst  the  trees. 

He  therefore  stepped  into  a  gap  in  the  encircling 
hedge  of  bramble  and  thorn,  the  straight  muddy 
road  passing  into  the  haze  behind  him,  and  the 
brown,  misty  woods,  carpeted  with  wet  leaves,  be- 
fore him;  and,  curving  his  hand  around  his  mouth, 
he  uttered  that  long  low  whistle  which  sounded 
like  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul,  and  which  more  than 
once  had  struck  terror  into  the  heart  of  some  passing 
yokel. 

Thrice  he  repeated  it,  pausing  between  to  listen 
for  the  answering  call  and  the  familiar  cracking 
of  the  trwigs;  and  he  was  about  to  make  a  final  at- 
tempt when  of  a  sudden  he  heard  a  slight  sound 
upon  the  road  some  fifty  yards  away.  Turning 
quickly,  he  saw  the  ragged,  well-remembered  figure 
dart  out  from  the  hedge  into  the  middle  of  the  road, 
eagerly  running  to  right  and  left  like  a  dog  that 
has  lost  the  scent.  He  was  hatless,  and  his  mop  of 
dirty  red  hair  was  unmistakable. 

Jim  stepped  out  Into  the  roadway,  and  thereat 
Smiley-face  came  bounding  towards  him,  his  arms 
stretched  wide,  his  smile  extending  from  ear  to  ear, 
and  his  little  blue  eyes  agleam. 

"Hullo,  Smiley,  old  sport!"  said  Jim,  holding  out 
his  hand;  but  he  was  wholly  unprepared  for  the 
scene  which  followed. 


THE  RETURN  229 

Smiley's  knees  seemed  to  give  way  under  him, 
and,  snatching  at  Jim's  hand,  he  stumbled  and  fell 
forward  upon  the  grass  at  the  roadside,  panting, 
coughing,  and  laughing.  "O  God!  O  God!  O 
God!"  he  gasped.  "I  knew  you  was  alive,  sir:  I 
knew  it  in  me  bones." 

He  pulled  himself  up  on  to  his  knees,  and  held 
Jim's  hand  to  his  face,  hugging  it  in  a  sort  of  frenzy 
of  animal  delight. 

"Get  up!"  said  Jim,  sharply.  "What's  the  mat- 
ter with  you?" 

"I  dunno,"  Smiley  answered,  sheepishly,  clamber- 
ing to  his  feet.  "I  felt  sort  o'  dizzy-dazzy  like.  I 
get  took  like  that  sometimes.  I  'ad  the  doctor  to  me 
once:  he  told  old  Jenny  it  was  my  ticket  home. 
That's  what  'e  said  it  was:  I  heerd  'im  say  it  to  'er." 

"Been  ill,  have  you?"  Jim  asked,  putting  his  hand 
on  the  poacher's  shoulder,  and  observing  now  how 
haggard  the  face  had  grown. 

"I'll  be  fit  as  a  fiddle  now  you've  comiC  back," 
he  answered,  laughing.  "I  knew  you  wasn't  dead! 
Murdered,  they  said  you  was;  but  I  says  to  old 
Jenny:  'I'll  not  believe  it,'  I  says;  'not  with  'im  able 
to  floor  I  with  one  twist  of  his  'and.  'E's  just  gone 
off  tramping,'  I  says.  '  'E's  gone  back  to  the 
roads.   .   .   .   'E  never  could  abide  a  bedroom.'  " 

"Well,  you  were  right,  Smiley,"  Jim  replied.  "I 
couldn't  stick  it  any  longer,  and  so  I  quitted.  Hut 
I  mustn't  be  seen,  you  understand.  I'm  deail.  I've 
only  come  down  here  to  get  into  touch  with  you,  and 
find  out  how  things  are  going  on.  " 

"Friends  stick  to  friends,''  the  poacher  crooncil, 
intoning  the  wortis  like  a  chant.     "I   nc\cr  'ad   no 


230  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

friend  except  you.  It  seems  like  I  given  you  every- 
thing I  got  inside  my  'ead." 

They  entered  the  wood  together,  and  sat  down 
side  by  side  upon  a  fallen  tree  trunk.  Jim  questioned 
him  about  Dolly,  and  was  told  that  she  was  living 
quietly  at  the  Manor,  a  little  widow  in  a  pretty  black 
dress;  and  that  her  mother  sometimes  came  to  stay 
with  her,  but  was  not  at  present  in  Eversfield,  so 
far  as  he  knew. 

"Do  you  think  she  misses  me?"  Jim  asked. 

Smiley  wagged  his  head.  "I  wouldn't  like  to  say 
for  sure,"  he  answered;  "but  betwixt  you  and  me, 
sir,  that  there  Mr.  Merrivall  do  spend  a  deal  o'  time 
at  the  Manor.  Jane  Potts,  his  'ousekeeper,  be  ter- 
rible mad  about  it.  They  do  say  her  watches  him 
like  a  ferret.  It's  jealousy,  seeing  her's  been  as 
good  as  a  wife  to  'im,  these  many  years.  But  he's 
that  took  with  your  lady,  sir,  he  can't  see  what's 
brewing.  Seems  like  as  they'd  make  a  match  of 
it  when  her  mourning's  up." 

"The  devil  they  would!"  Jim  exclaimed,  his  face 
lighting  up.  "Why,  then,  she'll  be  very  willing  to 
divorce  me.  .  .  .  That's  good  news,  Smiley!" 

The  poacher  looked  perplexed.  "Divorce  you?" 
he  asked.     "Baint  you  staying  dead,  then?" 

Jim  put  his  hand  on  Smiley's  shoulder  again. 
"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  told  you  once  that  if  ever  I 
confided  my  troubles  to  anybody  it  would  be  to  you. 
Can  I  trust  you  to  hold  your  tongue?" 

Smiley  exposed  all  his  yellow  teeth  in  a  wide 
grin.  "You  can  trust  I  through  thick  and  thin, 
same  as  what  you  said  once.     They  could  tear  my 


THE  RETURN  231 

liver  out,  but  they'd  not  make  I  tell  what  you  said 
I  mustn't  tell;  and  that's  gospel." 

Thereupon  Jim  explained  the  whole  situation  to 
him,  telling  him  how  in  a  far  country  he  had  found 
again  the  woman  he  ought  to  have  married,  and  how 
he  hoped  that  Dolly  would  free  him. 

"It's  life  or  death.  Smiley,"  he  said  earnestly.  "If 
my  wife  welcomes  me  back  from  the  grave,  and 
claims  her  rights,  I  shall  put  a  bullet  through  my 
head,  for  I  could  not  be  the  husband  of  a  sham  thing 
now  that  I  know  what  it  is  to  love  a  real  woman. 
Oh,  man,  I'm  devoured  by  love.  I'm  burning  to 
be  back  with  her,  and  with  the  son  she  has  borne  me. 
Don't  you  see  I'm  in  hell,  and  the  fires  of  hell  are 
consuming  me?" 

The  poacher  scratched  his  towsled  red  hair. 
"Yes,  I  see,"  he  said.  "And  I  reckon  her's 
waiting  for  you  over  there  in  them  furrin  lands 
where  the  sun's  shining  and  the  birds  are  singing. 
When  they  told  I  you  was  dead  I  says  to  old  Jenny 
you'd  only  gone  to  those  countries  you  used  to 
talk  about,  where  the  trees  are  green  the  year  round, 
and  you  look  down  into  the  water  and  see  the  trout 
a-sliding  over  mother-o'-pcarl.  '  'E's  heard  the  tem- 
ple-bells a-calling,'  I  says,  'the  same  as  'e  sang  about 
that  day  in  the  parish-room,'  I  says,  'and  'e's  just 
sitting  lazy  by  the  river,  and  maybe  the  queen  of 
them  parts  is  a-kissing  of  'is  'and.'  " 

Jim  laughed  aloud.  "Smiley,  you're  a  poet,"  he 
said,  "but  you  came  pretty  near  the  truth,  only  it  was 
I  who  was  kissing  hrr  hand." 

For  a  while  longer  they  talked,  but  at  length  jini 
proposed  that  the  poacher  should  go  at  once  to   Ted 


232  BI-DOUIN   LOVE 

Barnes,  the  postman,  and  find  out  whether  Mrs. 
Darling  was  at  the  Manor  or  not,  and  if  not,  perhaps 
Ted  could  be  induced  to  tell  him  the  address  to 
which  her  letters  were  forwarded.  "Say  you  want 
to  send  her  a  couple  of  rabbits,"  Jim  suggested,  with 
a  laugh.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "It  will  be  dusk 
in  two  hours  or  so.  Meet  me  here  at  about  that 
time,  just  before  it  is  dark." 

Smiley  seemed  eager  to  be  of  service,  and,  re- 
peatedly touching  his  forelock,  went  off  on  his  mis- 
sion in  high  spirits,  turning  round  to  wave  a  dirty 
hand  to  his  adored  friend  as  he  glided  away  amongst 
the  tree  trunks  into  the  haze.  Thereupon  Jim  set 
off  for  a  walk  in  the  direction  of  the  neighbouring 
village  of  Bcdley-Sutton,  in  order  to  pass  the  time; 
and  it  was  an  hour  later  that  he  returned  to  the 
woods  of  the  Manor. 

There  was  still  another  hour  to  wait  before  he 
might  expect  Smiley's  return;  and  he  therefore 
strolled  through  the  silent  woods,  visiting  with 
gloomy  curiosity  the  various  well-remembered  scenes 
of  his  days  of  captivity.  "How  could  I  ever  have 
stood  it?"  he  questioned  himself;  yet  at  the  back  of 
his  mind  there  was  the  overwhelming  consciousness 
that  here  was  the  home  of  his  forefathers,  the  home 
he  wished  to  hand  on  to  his  son,  but  that  now  it 
belonged  to  Dolly,  a  woman  to  whom  he  felt  no 
sense  of  relationship,  and  ultimately  it  would  pass 
out  of  his  family,  unless  he  laid  claim  to  it  anew. 

The  turmoil  in  his  mind  was  extreme,  and  his 
dilemma  was  made  more  desperate  by  the  thought 
that  Monlme,  whose  instinctive  wisdom  and  prac- 
tical  sympathy  might  now  be  so   helpful,   must  be 


THE  RETURN  233 

shut  out  from  these  events  and  kept  in  ignorance 
of  his  perplexity.  He  yearned  to  write  to  her  and 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  yet  he  feared  the  blighting 
effect  of  such  a  confession  of  crude  error  and  decep- 
tion.    With  his  whole  heart  he  detested  himself. 

His  wandering  footsteps  led  him  at  length  to  a 
point  not  far  distant  from  the  bottom  of  the  Manor 
garden.  He  had  been  threading  his  way  uncon- 
sciously through  undergrowth  and  brambles,  carry- 
ing his  coat  over  his  arm  and  his  hat  in  his  hand ;  and 
he  was  about  to  step  out  on  to  the  mossy  pathway 
which  led  to  the  garden  gate  when  suddenly  he  heard 
voices  at  no  great  distance,  and  with  beating  heart, 
he  stepped  back  into  a  thicket  and  crouched  there  be- 
hind the  tall-growing  bracken. 

A  moment  later  he  was  staring  with  flushed  face 
at  the  approaching  figures  of  Dolly  and  George 
Merrivall,  who  were  strolling  towards  him,  she  gaz- 
ing up  at  her  middle-aged  companion,  and  he,  his 
arm  about  her,  looking  down  at  her  with  his  large 
fish-like  eyes.  The  picture  stamped  itself  savagely 
upon  his  mind. 

Dolly  was  wearing  a  smart  black  coat  and  skirt, 
and  a  black-and-white  scarf  was  flung  around  her 
neck.  A  saucy  little  black  felt  hat,  adorned  with 
a  stiff  feather,  showed  up  her  golden  luiir  and  the 
fair  complexion  of  her  childlike  face.  Merrivall,  in 
a  new  walking-suit  of  grey  homespun,  a  large  cap 
to  match,  and  grey  stockings  covering  his  thin  legs, 
seemed  to  be  clothed  to  approximate  to  the  grey 
haze  of  the  afternoon;  and  even  his  face  appeared 
grey,  like  the  dead  ashes  of  a  fire  long  burnt  out. 


234  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Soon  they  were  close  at  hand,  and  Jim  could  hear 
their  words. 

"O  George,"  Dolly  was  saying,  "how  frightening 
the  woods  are  in  the  half-light !  I  believe  they  really 
are  haunted.     Why  did  you  dare  me  to  come  here?" 

"It  was  you  who  proposed  it,"  he  answered, 
shortly. 

"Did  I?"  she  replied,  looking  up  at  him  with 
innocent  eyes.  "Well,  I'm  not  really  afraid  when 
you  are  with  me.  You're  so  strong,  so  protective. 
I  suppose  there's  nothing  in  the  world  that  could 
frighten  you." 

"Not  many  things,"  he  agreed,  with  a  brave  toss 
of  his  head. 

She  pressed  his  arm.  "You  know,  that's  what 
I  always  missed  so  much  in  poor  Jim.  I  could 
never  look  to  him  for  protection;  I  could  never 
lean  on  him.  And,  you  see,  I'm  such  a  little  coward, 
really:  you  should  see  me  running  sometimes  from 
some  silly  thing  that  has  startled  me." 

"My  little  fawn!"  he  murmured,  lifting  her  hand 
to  his  lips. 

Jim's  eyes  were  wild.  "The  same  old  game!" 
he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  peered  at  them  be- 
tween the  wet,  brown  leaves  of  the  bracken. 

"You  need  a  man  to  take  care  of  you,"  Merrivall 
continued.  "How  long  must  we  wait  before  we 
can  announce  our  engagement?" 

"You  are  impatient,  George,"  she  replied.  "Even 
though  I  never  really  loved  Jim,  I  feel  I  ought  to 
give  his  memory  the  tribute  of  the  usual  year.  Peo- 
ple who  don't  know  how  he  forced  me  to  marry  him 
and  how  brutally  he  ill-treated  me,  would  say  un- 
kind things  if  I  married  you  any  sooner  than  that." 


THE  RETURN  235 

Merrivall  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  standing 
still  upon  the  mossy  pathway.  "Nobody  would  know 
if  we  got  married  at  once  at  a  registry  office,"  he 
said  at  length.  "We  could  go  abroad  for  some 
months." 

She  looked  up  at  him  archly.  "A  wife  is  a  very 
expensive  thing  you  know,"  she  smiled.  "Why, 
a  woman's  clothes  alone  cost  a  fortune.  You  see 
it  isn't  only  what  shows  on  the  outside — it's  all  the 
wonderful  things  underneath.   .   .   ." 

They  passed  on  out  of  earshot,  leaving  Jim,  who 
remembered  so  well  her  tricks,  consumed  by  fierce 
anger,  and  overwhelmed  by  his  destiny.  If  Dolly 
married  this  man,  the  final  complication  would  be 
reached,  and  the  legal  difficulties  would  be  multi- 
plied out  of  all  reckoning.  Moreover,  the  thought 
that  the  home  of  the  Tundering-Wests  should  pass 
to  a  washed-out  drunken  remittance  man  enhanced 
the  value  of  the  estate  a  hundredfold  in  his  eyes. 
He  felt  inclined  to  reveal  himself  at  once:  he  was 
mad  with  rage  at  her  misrepresentation  of  the  facts 
of  their  relationship. 

A  few  moments  later  Merrivall  stopped  short, 
looking  at  his  watch;  and,  as  he  turned,  Jim  could 
hear  again  his  words,  "(jood  gracious  I"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  shall  be  late  for  the  whist  drive.  What 
am  I  thinking  of!" 

He  took  Dolly's  hand  and  ran  back  at  a  jog-trot 
towards  the  gate.  As  soon  as  they  had  passed  him 
and  were  hidden  by  the  bend  in  the  path,  Jim  rose 
to  his  feet  and  hurried  after  tiiem.  He  had  no 
settled  purpose:  he  wished  only  to  follow  them. 
When  he  came  within  fifty  yards  of  the  border  of 
the  woods,  however,  he  paused  behiml  a  tree,  and 


236  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

watched  Merrivall  as  he  hastened  across  the  garden, 
leaving  Dolly  panting  at  the  gate.  She  was  perhaps 
a  little  annoyed  at  his  precipitation,  and  thought 
it  more  dignified  to  let  him  be,  now  that  she  was 
back  in  the  safety  of  her  garden  and  the  fearsome 
woods  were  behind  her. 

After  a  lapse  of  a  minute  or  two  Jim  observed 
that  she  was  looking  from  side  to  side  as  though 
she  had  lost  something,  and  soon  he  could  see 
that  she  had  dropped  one  of  her  gloves,  and  was 
trying  to  pluck  up  her  courage  to  enter  the  gloomy 
dimness  of  the  haunted  woods  once  more  in  order 
to  find  it.  His  eye  searched  the  pathway,  and  pres- 
ently he  discerned  the  missing  glove  lying  not  more 
than  a  few  yards  from  him,  a  little  further  into  the 
woods. 

He  had  no  time  to  conceal  himself  before  Dolly 
came  running  down  the  pathway,  looking  furtively 
to  right  and  left.  She  passed  without  seeing  him 
and  retrieved  the  glove;  but  as  she  turned  to  re- 
trace her  steps  she  caught  sight  of  him  and  started 
back,  uttering  a  cry  of  fright. 

Flight  seemed  useless  to  Jim:  the  crisis  had  come, 
and  in  his  bitter  wrath  he  gladly  faced  it.  Slowly 
and  deliberately  he  stepped  forward  on  to  the  path- 
way and  stood  there  barring  her  way.  His  raincoat 
and  hat  were  still  amongst  the  bracken  at  his  former 
place  of  hiding,  and  now  he  stood  silently  in  the  grey 
and  ghostly  haze,  wearing  an  old  suit  of  clothes 
which  she  knew  well,  his  dark  hair  falling  untidily 
about  his  forehead,  his  face  ashen  white,  his  eyes 
burning  with  anger,  his  whole  attitude  menacing  and 
vindictive. 

Dolly's  terror  was  horrible  to  behold.     Her  right 


THE  RETURN  237 

hand  and  arm  beat  at  the  air  conclusively;  the 
knuckles  of  her  left  hand  were  thrust  between  her 
chattering  teeth;  her  eyes  were  dilated,  and  her  eye- 
brows semed  to  have  gone  up  into  her  hair. 

"I  didn't  mean  it,  Jim!"  she  gasped.  "I  didn't 
mean  it!  Go  away!  I'll  tell  him  the  truth;  I'll  tell 
him  you  were  good  to  me  .  .  .  O  God,  take  him 
away !  .  .  .  Go  back  tO'  your  grave,  Jim.  O  God,  take 
him  away,  take  him  away  ...    !" 

Her  voice  rose  to  a  shriek;  and,  falling  upon  her 
knees,  she  beat  the  soft  moss  of  the  pathway  with 
her  fists  in  frenzy. 

"Get  up,  you  little  fool !"  Jim  snapped.  "I'm 
not  a  ghost.     I'm  alive:  look  at  me." 

She  stared  at  him  with  her  mouth  open,  crawled 
forward,  and  rose  to  her  feet.  Suddenly,  as  the 
truth  seemed  to  dawn  upon  her,  the  colour  surged 
into  her  cheeks,  and  there  came  an  expression  of 
hatred  into  her  face  which  Jim  had  not  seen  before, 
and  which  wholly  surpassed  the  animosity  he  him- 
self felt. 

"You're  alive?"  she  gasped.  "You  weren't  mur- 
dered?    You've  just  played  a  trick  on  me?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I  didn't  mean  to  turn  up 
again,  only  circumstancs  have  compelled  me  to." 

"You  can't  come  back!"  she  cried,  wringing  her 
hands  in  such  desperation  that  a  certain  degree  of 
pity  was  added  to  Jim's  tumult  of  emotions.  "You're 
dead:  you  can't  come  back  to  life  again,  you  can't, 
you  can't!  .  .  .  Spoiling  everything  like  this,  you 
beast! — you  devil!  Oh,  I  might  have  guessed  it 
was  all  a  dirty  trick  to  spite  me.  You've  been  living 
with  some  other  woman,  I  suppose.  Well,  go  back 
to  her.      I've  done  with  you.     Nobody  wants  you 


238  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

here :  we  all  thanked  Heaven  when  you  died.  You 
were  always  impossible." 

She  moved  to  and  fro,  now  twisting  her  gloves 
in  her  hands,  now  pointing  at  him  with  shaking 
fingers,  and  now  clutching  at  her  breast  and  throat. 

"Well,  there  it  is,"  Jim  said,  feeling  himself  to 
be  in  the  wrong.  "I'm  sorry  about  it  all,  but  here 
I  am,  alive.  I'm  not  going  to  bother  you.  All  I 
want  is  for  you  to  divorce  me  for  desertion,  so  that  I 
can  be  quit  of  you  and  Eversfield  for  the  rest  of 
my  life." 

"Divorce  you?"  she  repeated,  furiously.  "Di- 
vorce a  dead  man?  Make  myself  a  laughing  stock? 
Why,  I've  only  just  paid  for  a  memorial  tablet  for 
you  in  the  church;  a  lying  tablet,  too,  in  which  I've 
called  myself  your  'sorrowing  widow.'  It  isn't  true. 
I  felt  no  sorrow:  I  think  I  always  detested  you.  I 
should  never  have  married  you  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
mother  saying  you  were  such  a  good  match.  And 
now,  just  when  I've  found  a  real  man,  a  man  who 
will  look  after  me,  you  come  sneaking  home  again, 
prowling  about  like  a  tramp,  or  a  burglar,  or  some- 
thing.    I  wish  to  God  you  were  dead !" 

Under  her  lashing  tongue,  Jim  was  nonplussed. 
He  wanted  to  tell  her  how  she  had  made  his  life 
impossible  by  her  shams  and  pretences,  her  crude 
view  of  marriage,  her  intrinsic  uselessness ;  but  words 
were  not  forthcoming.  "As  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned," he  said  lamely,  "I  shall  be  dead  as  soon  as 
you  divorce  me.  It  will  mean  postponing  your  mar- 
riage for  a  few  months:  that's  all." 

"What  have  you  came  back  for?"  she  cried,  at 
length.  "Is  it  money  you  want?  I  suppose  it's  a 
sort  of  blackmail." 


THE  RETURN  239 

"No,  I  don't  want  money,"  he  said.  "Fll  leave 
you  the  bulk  of  the  estate.  But  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  right  away,  you  will  only  have  a  life-interest  in 
this  place.  On  your  death  it  will  revert  to  me  and 
my  successors.  Those  are  my  terms;  and  if  you 
don't  agree  to  them,  I'll  claim  the  whole  estate 
again  and  make  you  only  an  allowance." 

"Oh,  you  fiend!"  she  cried,  beside  herself  once 
more  with  fury.  "The  utter  cruelty  and  callousness 
of  it !  It's  just  a  practical  joke  you've  played  on  me, 
coming  back  like  a  cad  when  we  all  thought  you  were 
dead  and  done  with.  I'll  tell  everybody:  I'll  make 
your  name  stink  in  the  nostrils  of  every  man  who 
is  a  gentleman." 

Jim  shrugged  his  shoulders;  and,  suddenly,  to  his 
amazement  she  leapt  at  him  and  dug  her  nails  into 
his  face.  He  grabbed  hold  of  her  arms,  and  for  a 
dreadful  moment  they  struggled  like  two  savages. 
Then  she  broke  loose  from  him  and  dashed  away 
amongst  the  misty  trees  at  the  side  of  the  pathway, 
stumbling  through  the  bracken,  and  crying  out  to  him 
disjointed  words  of  fury.  For  some  moments  Jim 
stood  staring  after  her,  listening  to  the  crackling  of 
the  twigs  which  marked  her  progress.  She  was 
working  round,  it  seemed,  towards  the  gate  of  the 
manor,  and  presently  the  sounds  ceased,  as  though 
she  had  paused  to  get  her  breath. 

Thereat  Jim  walked  back  towards  his  rendezvous, 
recovering  his  coat  and  hat  on  the  way.  His  brain 
was  confused  and  tlistracted,  and  a  feeling  of  nausea 
was  upon  him.  Passionately  he  hated  himself;  and 
miserably  he  asked  himself  what  Monime  would 
think  of  the  whole  unsavoury  business  were  she  ever 
to  hear  of  it. 


Chapter  XVII:     THE  CATASTROPHE 

DARKNESS  was  falling,  and  Jim,  whose 
heart  was  in  his  boots,  was  beginning  to 
feel  cold  in  spite  of  the  mildness  of  the  day, 
when  Smiley-face  made  his  appearance,  touching  his 
forelock  ingratiatingly. 

"I  been  a  long  time,  sir,"  he  explained,  "but  you 
know  what  that  there  Ted  Barnes  is.  Slow  to  talk 
and  wanting  a  power  of  persuading.  But  I  got  the 
address  from  'im:  'ere  it  is,  wrote  on  this  paper." 

He  handed  Jim  a  slip  of  paper,  upon  which  the  ad- 
dress of  a  Kensington  hotel  was  written.  He  was 
grinning  triumphantly,  as  though  he  had  performed 
some  great  service  for  his  friend. 

"Good  lad,"  said  Jim.  "That's  very  smart  of 
you.  I  say.  Smiley:  I've  had  the  deuce  of  a  time 
while  you  were  in  the  village.     I  met  my  wife!" 

The  poacher  smiled  from  ear  to  ear.  "O 
Lordee!"  he  chuckled.  "I  reckon  that  'ud  give  her 
a  bit  of  a  turn,  like." 

Jim  told  him  something  of  what  had  occurred,  but 
Smiley's  attitude  of  frank  amusement  caused  him 
to  cut  the  story  short;  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  brought  the  interview  to  an  end. 

As  they  shook  hands  at  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
Smiley  suddenly  paused  and  raised  his  finger.  "Did 
you  hear  anything?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Jim,  after  listening  for  a  few  moments. 

240 


THE  CATASTROPHE  241 

"Thought  I  heard  a  step,"  the  poacher  went  on. 
"There's  a  heap  o'  tramps  about  these  days.  I  seen 
'em  in  the  woods  sometimes,  but  I  don't  allow  no 
one  to  poach  there  except  me.   .   .   ." 

He  was  in  a  loquacious  mood,  and  Jim  found  it 
necessary  to  make  a  resolute  interruption  of  the 
flow  of  his  words  by  shaking  him  warmly  by  the  hand 
once  more  and  setting  off  down  the  dark  lane  in  the 
direction  of  Oxford. 

He  reached  London,  somewhat  dazed,  in  time  for 
dinner,  and  by  nine  o'clock  he  was  driving  out  to 
Kensington  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Darling.  Now 
that  Dolly  knew  that  he  was  alive,  it  would  be  as 
well  for  him  to  enlist  the  services  of  her  mother  as 
soon  as  possible.  He  could,  perhaps,  make  it  worth 
her  while  to  aid  him  in  regard  to  the  divorce. 

Upon  arriving  at  the  small  private  hotel  where 
she  was  staying  he  was  shown  into  an  unoccupied 
sitting-room, 

"What  name,  sir?"  asked  the  page. 

"Mr.  Tundering-West,"  said  Jim,  apprehensive 
of  the  jolt  the  announcement  would  cause,  but  feel- 
ing that  since  a  shock  could  not  be  avoided,  it  would 
be  better  for  her  to  receive  it  before  she  entered 
the  room. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait:  after  a  few  minutes  of 
uncomfortable  fiddling  with  his  hat,  Mrs.  Darling 
suddenly  bounced  in,  as  though  she  had  been  kicked 
from  behind.  Then,  with  astonished  eyes  fixed  on 
Jim,  she  shut  the  door  and  stood  staring  at  him  in 
complete  silence. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  nervously  smiling,  "it's  me,  Mrs. 
Darling!" 


242  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

"Good  gracious  1"  she  gasped.  "Jim  !  You — you 
— you  lunatic!  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  in  the 
land  of  the  living?  You're  supposed  to  be  dead  and 
buried." 

"No,  not  Buried,"  he  corrected  her.  "I  was 
knifed,  you  remember,  and  dropped  into  the  sea." 

She  passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead.  "You 
mean  you  swam  back  home?"    Her  voice  was  awed. 

"Something  like  that,"  he  laughed.  "Anyway, 
here  I  am;  and  I've  come  to  you  to  ask  what  I'm 
to  do  next.    I've  just  had  a  talk  with  Dolly." 

Mrs.  Darling  threw  up  her  hands,  and  therewith 
she  set  about  his  cross-examination,  asking  him  a 
number  of  questions  in  regard  to  his  life,  and  receiv- 
ing a  number  of  evasive  replies.  "My  good  man," 
she  said  at  length,  "do  you  realize  that  Dolly  is  an 
established  widow,  on  the  look  out,  in  fact,  for  an- 
other husband?  Do  you  realize  that  we've  had  a 
solemn  memorial  service  for  you,  and  put  a  tablet  up 
in  the  church?" 

"Yes,  I've  seen  it,"  he  answered.  "It  made  me 
blush  for  shame." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  she  said.  "You  may 
well  be  ashamed  that  you  have  fallen  so  far  short 
of  the  virtues  attributed  to  you.  I  always  think  it  is 
such  a  wonderful  thing  in  nature  that  the  only  crea- 
tures who  can  blush  are  the  only  creatures  who  have 
occasion  to." 

Considering  that  it  was  her  daughter's  future 
which  was  at  stake,  Mrs.  Darling  seemed  to  Jim  to 
be  treating  matters  very  lightly. 

"Do  you  realize,"  she  went  on,  her  voice  rising, 
"that  your  will  has  been  read,  and  Dolly  owns  every 


THE  CATASTROPHE  243 

penny  you  had,  and  gives  me  three  hundred  pounds 
a  year  allowance?" 

"Only  three  hundred?"  he  remarked.  "That's 
mean.     I'll  give  you  four." 

"It's  not  yours  to  give,"  she  answered.  "You're 
dead — dead  as  mutton.  You  can't  play  fast  and 
loose  with  death  like  that,  you  know.  When  you're 
murdered,  you're  murdered,  and  there's  an  end  of 
it.  It  would  make  things  absolutely  impossible  if 
people  could  go  popping  in  and  out  of  their  graves 
like  you  are  doing.  Surely  you  can  see  that.  What 
did  Dolly  say?" 

"Oh,  she  was  very  upset,"  he  told  her.  "She 
stormed  at  me  and  called  me  every  name  under  the 
sun;  said  she  had  always  hated  me;  told  me  she  was 
going  to  marry  George  Merrivall." 

"Well,  what  else  did  you  expect?  She  says  you  ill- 
treated  her  horribly." 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Jim,  sharply. 

"Yes,  so  I  told  her,"  Mrs.  Darling  replied.  "I 
know  you.  You're  perfectly  mad,  but  I  always  felt 
you  were  very  decent  to  Dolly,  considering  what  a 
little  fraud  she  Is." 

"Anyhow,  I  don't  mind  her  saying  I  ill-treated 
her,"  he  added,  "if  that's  any  use  for  the  purpose 
of  our  divorce." 

"Divorce?"  cried  Mrs.  Darling.  "Do  you  want 
her  to  divorce  you.    What  for?" 

"So  that  I  can  be  quit  of  her,  and  marry  again  if 
I  find  the  right  woman." 

Mrs.  Darling  held  up  her  hands.  "What  sublime 
courage!  But  you  musn't  let  marriage  become  a 
habit,  for  the  divorce  courts  arc  very  slow,  you  know. 


244  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

I  have  a  woman  friend  who  is  already  three  mar- 
riages ahead  of  her  divorces.  I  should  have  thought 
that  a  man  like  you,  who  is  something  of  a  philos- 
opher and  thinker,  would  now  shun  marriage  like  the 
plague.  But  I  suppose  even  the  cleverest  men  .  .  . 
There  is  the  famous  case  of  Socrates,  who  died  of 
an  overdose  of  wedlock." 

"Hemlock,"  he  corrected  her. 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Perhaps  it  is  simply  your 
youth :  you  still  look  very  young,  in  spite  of  your  re- 
cent death.  I  remember,  in  the  days  before  my  bright 
future  had  resolved  itself  into  a  shady  past,  I,  too, 
was  an  optimist  about  marriage.  But  I  was  soon 
cured.  So  long  as  he  liked  me,  my  husband  was  so 
terribly  jealous  of  me.  It  was  quite  intolerable.  He 
would  not  even  let  my  eyes  wander  from  him.  Why, 
I  remember  once  turning  my  head  away  from  him 
for  a  moment  because  I  had  hiccups,  and  being  in- 
stantly cured  by  his  seizing  my  throat  in  a  conse- 
quent fit  of  passion.  .  .  .  Were  you  ever  jealous  of 
Dolly?" 

"No,"  said  Jim;  "and  this  afternoon  I  saw  her 
making  love  to  George  Merrlvall  without  any  feel- 
ing except  annoyance  with  myself  for  ever  having 
believed  in  her." 

"Poor  Dolly,"  sighed  her  mother.  "I  am  de- 
voted to  her,  as  you  know;  but  I  do  realize  her 
faults,  and  I  know  what  you  had  to  put  up  with." 

For  some  time  they  discussed  the  possibilities  of 
divorce,  and  Mrs.  Darling  was  frankly  business-like 
in  regard  to  the  financial  side  of  the  affair. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "it  is  very  hard  to  do  busi- 
ness with  you,  my  dear  Jim,   because  you   are   an 


THE  CATASTROPHE  245 

honest  man.  I  prefer  dealing  with  crooks.  It  is 
so  simple,  because  you  always  know  that  at  some 
stage  of  the  game  they  are  going  to  try  to  trip 
you  up.  But  with  honest  men,  you  never  know  what 
they'll  do  next." 

The  upshot  of  their  conversation  was  an  under- 
standing that  Mrs.  Darling  should  go  down  next 
day  to  Eversfield  and  win  her  daughter  over  to  the 
idea  of  divorce;  and,  this  being  arranged,  he  rose 
to  go. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  warmly  shaking  her  hand. 
"I  can't  begin  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  and 
generosity  of  mind." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  she  laughed.  "I'm  just  a  schem- 
ing old  woman,  Jim.  As  I've  often  told  you,  I'd 
sell  my  soul  for  an  income;  and  in  this  case  it  is 
obvious  that,  since  you  are  alive,  you  hold  the  family 
purse-strings.     That's  why  I  am  nice  to  you." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  anyway,"  she  said,  "I  wish  you  well,  dead 
or  alive.  Good-bye,  my  dear.  May  you  be  with  the 
rich  in  this  world  and  with  the  poor  in  the  world  to 
come." 

Jim  arrived  back  at  his  hotel  in  a  somewhat 
happier  frame  of  mind,  and  went  at  once  to  his 
bedroom,  tired  after  the  adventures  of  the  day. 
When  he  was  in  bed,  however,  he  found  that  sleep 
liad  deserted  him;  and  for  some  time  he  lay  on  his 
back,  vainly  endeavouring  to  quell  the  turbulence  of 
the  mob  of  his  thoughts.  The  figure  of  Dolly  kept 
presenting  itself  to  his  mind,  and  his  inward  ears 
heard  her  voice  continuously  railing  at  him  and  re- 
proaching him. 


246  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Her  pretty,  silly  little  face  seemed  to  push  in 
upon  his  thoughts  of  Monime;  and  suddenly  he  sat 
up,  scared  by  the  vividness  of  the  impression,  and 
wondering  whether  it  were  some  sort  of  portent  of 
coming  calamity  in  regard  to  the  new  life  for  which 
he  hoped  so  passionately.  He  switched  on  the  light, 
and,  kicking  off  the  bedclothes,  went  across  to  the 
washstand  and  poured  himself  out  a  dose  of  whisky 
from  his  flask.  The  radiator  was  too  hot,  and  the 
room  felt  stuffy;  but,  throwing  open  the  window,  a 
blast  of  cold  air  and  wet  sleet  searched  him  to  the 
skin,  and  obliged  him  to  shut  it  again. 

"Oh,  what  a  God-forsaken  country!"  he  muttered; 
and  therewith  fetched  his  guitar  from  its  case,  and 
sitting  cross-legged  upon  the  bed  in  his  pyjamas, 
began  twanging  the  strings  and  singing  old  songs 
in  a  minor  key  which  sounded  like  dirges  for  the 
dead.  The  music  soothed  him,  and  soon  he  was 
pouring  his  whole  heart  into  the  melodies,  oblivious 
to  all  around  him.  They  were  songs  of  love  now, 
and  as  he  sang  his  thoughts  went  out  over  the  seas  to 
Cairo  where  Monime  at  this  moment  was  probably 
lying  asleep  in  her  bed,  her  black  hair  spread  upon 
the  pillow. 

There  was  a  sharp  knock  upon  the  door.  "Come 
in,"  he  called  out,  pausing  in  his  song,  but  remaining 
seated  upon  the  bed,  with  his  fingers  upon  the  strings 
of  his  guitar. 

A  red-faced,  grey-moustached  man  of  military  ap- 
pearance stumped  into  the  room,  clad  in  a  brown 
dressing-gown.  "Confound  you,  sir!"  he  roared. 
"If  you  don't  put  that  damned  banjo  away  and  go  to 
bed,  I'll  ring  for  the  manager." 


THE  CATASTROPHE  247 

"What's  it  to  do  with  you?"  Jim  asked,  twang- 
ing the  strings  dreamily. 

"It's  disturbing  the  whole  hotel,"  he  answered. 
"Nobody  can  get  a  wink  of  sleep  with  that  blasted 
noise  going  on.  Damn  it,  sir! — have  you  no  sense 
of  duty  to  your  neighbour?" 

The  question  hit  home:  once  again  he  had  been 
proved  wanting  in  consideration.  "I'm  most  awfully 
sorry,"  he  said,  with  genuine  contrition.  "I'd  clean 
forgotten  I  was  in  a  hotel.  Please  forgive  me. 
Have  a  whisky  and  soda?     Have  a  cigar?" 

His  visitor  did  not  deign  to  reply.  He  stared 
at  Jim  with  hot,  scowling  eyes,  and  then,  making  a 
contemptuous  gesture,  left  the  room  again,  slam- 
ming the  door  after  him. 

"Well,  that's  that,"  Jim  muttered,  thereafter  re- 
turning to  bed,  annoyed  with  himself  and  distressed 
that  he  should  have  caused  annoyance  to  others. 
"What  a  sv.ine  I  am,"  he  thought. 

Matthew  Arnold's  lines: — 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ouj^ht  to  be.  .  .  . 

came  into  his  brain,  and  gloomily  he  repeated  them 
half  aloud.  Would  MonTmc  marry  him?  Or  would 
she,  too,  find  him  impossible?  What  a  mess  he  had 
made  of  his  life!  Perhaps  Dolly  had  been  justified 
in  her  dislike  of  him. 

With  such  thoughts  as  these  he  at  last  frll  ofi  to 
sleep. 

Next  morning,  after  breakfast,  he  picked  up  a 
newspaper  in  the  smoking-room,  and  for  some  min- 
utes read  the   foreign   news  without   much   interest. 


248  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Then  suddenly  a  set  of  headlines  caught  his  atten- 
tion, and  caused  him  to  sit  up,  aghast,  in  his  chair. 
The  printed  words  swayed  before  his  eyes  as  he 
read  the  appalling  news. 

"Last  night,"  the  story  began,  "the  body  of  Mrs. 
Dorothy  Tundering-West,  widow  of  the  late  James 
Tundering-West,  of  the  Manor,  Eversfield,  near  Ox- 
ford, was  found  in  a  wood  adjoining  the  grounds  of 
the  Manor.  The  back  of  the  skull  was  smashed  in,, 
probably  by  a  blow  from  a  large  stone  which  was 
found  near  by  with  bloodstains  upon  it.  Mrs.  West 
had  been  missing  since  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  medical  evidence  indicates  that  death  must  have 
occurred  at  about  that  hour.   .   .   ." 

With  desperate  haste  his  eyes  travelled  down  the 
column.  There  was  no  doubt  that  she  had  been 
murdered,  said  the  report,  but  the  thick  carpeting  of 
damp  leaves  upon  the  ground  had  retained  no  im- 
pression of  the  offender's  footprints.  She  was  lying 
on  her  face,  and  a  second  wound  upon  her  forehead 
was  probably  caused  by  her  fall.  The  motive  was 
not  apparent,  for  there  had  been  no  robbery,  and 
there  were  no  signs  of  a  struggle. 

The  police,  he  read,  attached  some  significance 
to  the  presence  of  a  man  of  foreign  appearance 
who  was  seen  in  the  early  afternoon  picking  berries 
from  a  hedge  in  the  neighbourhood.  In  this  connec- 
tion it  was  recalled  that  Mr.  Tundering-West  had 
died  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin  in  Italy  only  a  few 
months  ago,  and  it  was  possible  that  the  two  crimes 
were  both  the  outcome  of  some  secret  vendetta. 
What  had  induced  the  unfortunate  lady  to  go  into 


THE  CATASTROPHE  249 

the  woods  was  a  mystery,  and  perhaps  indicated  that 
she  had  been  lured  to  her  doom. 

Jim's  first  emotions  were  those  of  extreme  horror 
at  the  crime,  and  pity  for  Dolly.  The  manner  of 
her  death  appalled  him;  and  though  he  was  not  con- 
scious of  any  binding  relationship  to  her,  the  catas- 
trophe of  her  murder  swept  across  his  being  like  a 
fierce  wind,  as  it  were,  uprooting  the  plantations  of 
his  overstocked  brain,  or  like  a  breaking  wave 
thundering  on  to  the  shingle  of  his  multitudinous 
thoughts. 

It  was  fortunate  that  he  was  alone  in  the  smoking- 
room,  for  his  agitation  was  such  that  his  exclama- 
tions were  uttered  audibly,  and  soon  he  was  pacing 
the  floor,  the  newspaper  crumpled  in  his  hand.  It 
seemed  to  be  his  fate  that  the  crises  of  his  life  should 
be  announced  to  him  through  the  columns  of  the 
daily  Press.  In  this  manner  he  had  read  of  his  in- 
heritance, of  his  supposed  murder  at  Pisa,  and  now 
of  the  death  of  his  wife.  It  was  as  though  roguish 
powers  had  selected  him  as  a  victim  on  whom  thus  to 
spring  surprises. 

Who  could  have  committed  the  crime?  The 
thought  of  Smiley-face  came  immediately  to  his 
mind,  but  was  as  quickly  dismissed  again.  The 
poacher,  he  knew,  had  been  busy  in  the  village 
getting  Mrs.  Darling's  address  from  the  postman; 
and,  moreover,  his  behaviour  when  they  had  met 
again  clearly  proclaimed  his  innocence.  Possibly 
some  tramp  had  been  lurking  in  the  woods,  as 
Smiley  had  suspected,  and  Dolly  had  been  assaulted 
by  him  as  she  ran  from  Jim.  He  remembered  now 
with    awe   the    suildcn    silence    which    had    followed 


250  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

her  loud  flight  through  the  crackling  undergrowth. 

The  wretched  Mcrrivall,  he  realized,  would  have 
to  keep  his  movements  well  hidden;  for  if  it  were 
known  that  he  had  been  in  the  woods  with  Dolly 
he  would  most  assuredly  be  suspected,  motive  or  no 
motive.  If  anybody  had  seen  him  running  across 
the  manor  garden  on  his  way  to  the  forgotten  whist- 
drive  it  would  go  hard  with  him. 

Suddenly,  following  this  thought,  came  the  awful 
realization  of  his  own  peril.  He,  Jim,  was  the  last 
man  to  see  her  alive;  and  in  his  own  case  a  motive 
would  not  be  lacking.  Smiley-face  w^ould  be  certain 
to  suspect  him,  and  by  some  mistake  might  give  the 
secret  away. 

And  then — Mrs.  Darling!  She  knew  he  had  seen 
Dolly  in  the  woods,  she  knew  they  had  quarrelled 
violently!  Of  course,  she  would  accuse  him!  The 
thought  blared  at  him  like  a  discordant  trumpet,  pro- 
claiming his  guilt  to  the  world,  while  his  heart 
drummed  a  wild  accompaniment. 

In  bewilderment  he  ran  blindly  up  the  stairs  to  his 
bedroom  and  locked  the  door  behind  him. 


Chapter  XVIII:     DESTINY 

FOR  some  time  he  sat  In  his  bedroom,  over- 
whelmed by  horror  and  pity  at  Dolly's  death, 
and  by  the  terrible  menace  of  his  own  situa- 
tion. Mrs.  Darling  would  certainly  denounce  him 
to  the  police,  for  hardly  could  she  think  otherwise 
than  that  he  was  the  murderer  of  her  daughter,  even 
though  his  open  visit  to  her  at  her  hotel  would  be 
difficult  to  reconcile  with  his  guilt. 

Fate  seemed  to  be  playing  with  him,  torturing 
him,  hitting  him  from  all  sides.  If  only  he  had  post- 
poned his  visit  to  Mrs.  Darling  he  would  now  be  free 
to  slip  away  as  unnoticed  as  he  had  come,  resuming 
his  life  in  the  Near  East  as  Jim  Iiaston,  and  being 
in  no  way  suspected  of  the  crime,  for  the  silence  of 
Smiley-face  could  be  relied  on. 

But  now  he  was  done  for!  True,  he  was  to-day 
a  widower,  and  was  therefore  in  a  position  to  marry 
the  woman  whom  he  loved  with  a  passion  which 
seemed  only  to  grow  stronger  as  the  complications 
increased.  But  he  would  be  obliged  to  lie  to  her 
daily,  throughout  his  life:  there  would  always  be  this 
pitiable  barrier  of  deception  between  them.  And, 
moreover,  the  tragedy  of  Dolly's  death  so  fillcil  his 
mind  that  any  advantage  It  might  have  to  himselt 
was  hardly  able  to  be  rcali/.ed.  I  Ic  was  profoundly 
shocked  at  her  pitlal)le  end,  and  its  consequences 
were  enveloped  In  gloom. 

251 


252  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Even  though  Mrs.  Darling  were  to  hold  her 
tongue,  the  Eversfield  estate  would  none  the  less 
be  wholly  lost  to  him  now,  nor  would  his  son  ever 
reign  there  as  a  Tunderlng-West ;  for  were  he  to 
lay  claim  to  the  property,  or  reveal  the  fact  that  he, 
James  Tundering-West,  was  alive,  Monime  would 
think  he  had  gone  to  England  and  had  done  Dolly 
to  death  so  as  to  be  free  to  marry  again.  How  could 
she  think  otherwise? 

And,  again,  though  he  were  for  the  time  being 
to  escape  from  the  arm  of  the  law,  he  could  only 
marry  Monime  at  the  risk  of  dragging  her  into  a 
possible  scandal  in  the  future. 

He  paced  his  bedroom  In  his  despair,  now  cursing 
himself  for  his  actions,  now  screwing  up  his  eyes  to 
shut  out  the  pitiful  picture  of  Dolly,  now  laughing 
aloud,  like  a  madman,  at  the  nightmare  of  his  own 
position.  One  thing  was  certain:  he  must  leave 
England  this  very  morning  and  make  his  way  back 
to  Cyprus  or  Egypt,  or  somewhere.  Already  Mrs. 
Darling  might  have  notified  the  police.  Fortunately 
she  did  not  know  his  address,  nor  had  she  ever 
heard  the  name  "Easton,"  but  doubtless  the  ports 
would  be  watched,  and  were  he  to  delay  his  departure 
he  would  be  caught. 

In  sudden  haste  which  bordered  on  frenzy  he 
packed  his  portmanteau  and  rang  for  his  bill;  and 
soon  he  was  driving  to  the  station,  a  huddled  figure 
with  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  He  was  far 
too  early  for  the  train,  and,  during  the  long  wait 
every  pair  of  eyes  which  looked  into  his  set  his  heart 
beating  with  apprehension. 

He  had  always  been  an  outlaw:  he  had  never  fully 


DESTINY  253 

understood  the  basis  of  society,  nor  were  the  habits 
of  the  community  altogether  intelligible  to  him.  He 
had  gone  his  own  ways,  and  had  left  organized  hu- 
manity to  go  theirs.  They  had  not  molested  one 
another.  But  now  the  State  had  a  grievance  against 
him,  and  soon  it  would  be  feeling  out  for  him  with  its 
millions  of  antenmp,  searching  over  hill  and  dale, 
city  and  field,  with  waving,  creeping  tentacles.  He 
would  liave  to  duck  and  dodge  continuously  to  avoid 
being  caught,  and  always  there  would  be  in  his  heart 
the  terror  of  that  cruel,  relentless  mouth  waiting  to 
suck  the  life  out  of  him. 

His  relief  was  intense  when  at  the  end  of  the  day 
he  found  himself,  still  unmolested,  in  Paris.  But 
he  did  not  here  stay  his  flight.  All  through  the  night 
he  journeyed  southwards,  sitting  with  lolling  head 
in  the  corner  of  a  third-class  compartment  in  a  slow 
train — a  mode  of  travelling  which  he  had  deemed 
the  least  conspicuous. 

At  length,  upon  the  following  evening,  he  reached 
Marseilles,  where  he  put  up  at  a  small  hotel  at  which 
he  had  stayed  more  than  once  under  the  name  of 
Easton.  He  told  the  proprietor  he  had  just  come 
from  Italy,  a  remark  which  led  him  to  a  frenzied 
erasing  of  labels  from  his  baggage  in  his  bedroom. 

The  next  morning  he  made  incjuirics  as  to  the 
steamers  sailing  east,  and  was  relieved  to  lind  that  a 
French  liner  was  leaving  for  Alexandria  in  a  few 
hours.  He  obtained  a  berth  without  difficulty  and, 
after  a  period  of  horrible  anxiety  at  the  ilocks,  found 
himself  once  more  upon  the  high  seas,  the  menace  of 
the  western  world  fading  into  the  distance  behind 
him,  and  the  greater  chances  of  the  Orient  ahead. 


254  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Thus  he  arrived  back  one  morning  upon  the  soil 
of  Egypt,  a  fugitive  from  the  terror  of  the  law,  all 
his  nerves  strained  to  breaking-point,  his  face  pallid, 
his  dark  eyes  wild.  With  aching  heart  he  yearned 
for  the  serenity  which  Monime  exuded  like  the  per- 
fume of  incense  around  her;  he  longed  to  be  able  to 
go  to  her  and  to  bare  his  soul  of  its  secrets,  and  to 
lay  his  heavy  head  upon  her  complacent  breast;  he 
craved  for  the  comfort  of  those  caressing  hands 
which  seemed  in  their  soothing  touch  to  be  endowed 
with  the  mother-craft  of  all  the  ages. 

Never  before  in  his  independent  life  had  he  felt 
so  profound  a  desire  for  sympathy  and  companion- 
ship, yet  now  more  than  ever  must  he  lock  up  his 
troubles  in  his  own  heart.  He  would  write  to  her 
at  Mena  House  Hotel,  near  Cairo,  where  she  was 
staying,  and  tell  her  .  .  .  tell  her  what?  That  he 
could  not  live  without  her,  that  he  had  come  back 
to  her  after  but  a  couple  of  days  in  England,  that 
she  held  for  him  the  keys  of  heaven,  that  away  from 
her  he  was  in  outer  darkness.  He  would  await  her 
answer  here  in  Alexandria,  and  by  the  time  it  arrived 
perhaps  he  would  have  recovered  in  some  degree  his 
equilibrium. 

Feeling  that  his  safety  lay  in  the  unbroken  con- 
tinuity of  his  life  as  Jim  Easton,  he  went  to  the  little 
Hotel  des  Beaux-Esprits,  vaguely  telling  the  pro- 
prietress that  he  had  travelled  over  from  Cyprus. 
Some  London  papers  had  just  arrived  and  these,  hav- 
ing come  by  a  faster  route,  carried  the  news  to  the 
second  morning  after  his  departure  from  England. 
His  hand  shook  as  he  searched  the  columns  for  the 
"Eversfield  Murder,"  and  his  excitement  and  relief 


DESTINY  255 

were  altogether  beyond  description  when  he  read 
that  George  Merrivall's  housekeeper,  Jane  Potts, 
had  been  arrested  and  charged  with  the  crime. 

Eagerly  he  turned  to  the  recent  copies  of  the  local 
newspaper  in  which  the  English  telegrams  were  pub- 
lished daily,  and  here  he  read  that  the  evidence 
against  the  woman  was  of  such  damning  character 
that  she  had  been  committed  for  trial.  He  recalled 
how  Smiley-face  had  spoken  of  this  woman's  jealousy 
of  Dolly,  and  it  seemed  evident  that  she  had  followed 
George  Merrivall  into  the  woods  that  day  and  had 
wreaked  her  vengeance  on  her  rival. 

Mrs.  Darling,  then,  had  not  notified  the  police! 
Doubtless  she  had  heard  of  the  guilt  of  Jane  Potts 
in  time  to  prevent  the  further  scandal  in  regard  to 
himself.  She  must  have  realized  at  once  that  since 
he  was  not  the  murderer  there  was  no  good  purpose 
to  be  served  in  revealing  the  fact  that  he  was  still 
alive.  Possibly,  indeed,  she  may  have  hoped  to  profit 
by  Dolly's  death — she  was  the  next-of-kin — and  had 
no  wish  to  resuscitate  the  rightful  lord  of  the  manor 
from  his  supposed  grave  beneath  the  waves  of  Pisa. 
He  could  quite  imagine  the  pleasant,  unscrupulous 
soul  saying  to  him :  *'You  remain  dead,  my  lad,  and 
make  no  claim  to  the  estate,  or  I'll  force  you  also 
to  stand  your  trial  for  the  murder,  whether  you  did 
it  or  not." 

He  was  free,  then !  He  wanted  to  shout  the  tid- 
ings to  the  four  corners  of  the  world.  He  was  free 
to  go  to  Monimc,  and  to  ask  her  to  marry  him. 
For  a  short  time  longer  he  would  have  to  hide  his 
identity:  he  must  wait  until  Jane  Potts  had  paid  the 
penalty  of  her  jealousy.     Then  he  could  pension  off 


256  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Mrs.  Darling,  and,  when  all  was  settled  and  the  es- 
tate once  more  in  his  possession,  the  opportune  mo- 
ment would  have  arrived  for  his  clean  breast  to  Mo- 
nime.  She  would  understand;  she  would  forgive  I 
With  him  she  would  rejoice  that  by  bequest  their  son 
would  be  made  heir  to  a  comfortable  income  and 
home,  while  they  themselves  would  have  the  means 
to  procure  that  house  of  their  dreams,  somewhere 
beside  the  blue  Mediterranean,  which  should  be  their 
resting-place  at  desired  intervals  In  their  untram- 
melled wanderings  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  sudden  simplification  of  all  his  complexities, 
the  disentangling  of  the  web  in  which  he  had  been 
struggling,  had  an  Immediate  and  palpable  effect 
upon  his  appearance.  His  head  was  held  high  again, 
his  eyes  were  no  longer  furtive,  his  step  was  buoyant. 
Not  for  another  hour  could  he  delay  his  reunion  with 
Monlme,  and  to  the  astonished  proprietress  he  an- 
nounced a  sudden  change  of  plans,  and  was  gone 
from  the  hotel  within  thirty  minutes  of  his  arrival. 

He  reached  Cairo  at  mid-afternoon  upon  one  of 
those  warm  and  brilliant  days  which  are  the  glory 
of  early  winter  in  Egypt,  and  was  soon  driving 
out  in  the  Mena  House  motor-omnibus  along  the 
straight  avenue  of  majestic  acacia-trees  leading  from 
the  city  to  the  Pyramids,  in  the  shadow  of  which 
the  hotel  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  glaring  plateau  of 
rock  on  the  edge  of  the  desert. 

At  the  hotel  he  was  told  that  Monime  was  prob- 
ably to  be  found  at  a  point  about  half  a  mile  to  the 
north-west,  where  she  had  caused  a  tent  to  be  erected, 
and  was  engaged  upon  the  painting  of  a  desert  sub- 
ject.    He  was  in  no  mood  to  wait  for  her  return  at 


DESTINY  257 

sundown ;  and,  without  visiting  the  bedroom  which 
was  assigned  to  him,  he  set  out  at  once  on  foot  to 
find  her. 

Through  the  dusty  palm-grove  behind  the  hotel 
he  hastened,  and  up  the  slope  of  the  sandy  hill  be- 
yond, from  the  summit  of  which  he  could  see  the  tent 
standing  in  the  distance  amongst  the  rolling  dunes. 
Thereat  he  broke  into  a  run,  and  went  leaping  down 
Into  the  little  valleys  and  scrambling  up  the  low 
hills  beyond,  like  a  captive  freed  from  the  toils. 

A  few  minutes  later,  mounting  another  eminence, 
he  found  himself  immediately  at  the  back  of  the 
tent,  and  here  a  native  boy,  who  had  been  lying 
drowsing  upon  the  warm  sand,  rose  to  his  feet,  and, 
in  answer  to  a  rapid  question,  told  him  that  the 
lady  was  at  work  at  the  doorway  of  the  tent. 

Jim  hurried  forward,  his  heart  beating,  and  the 
next  moment  he  was  face  to  face  with  Monime. 

"Jim!"  she  exclaimed  in  astonishment,  throwing 
down  her  palette  and  brushes.  "My  dear  boy,  I 
thought  you  were  In  England." 

"So  I  was,"  he  laughed.  "I  was  there  just  two 
days,  and  then  ...   I  gave  it  up." 

He  could  restrain  himself  no  further.  "Oh, 
Monime,"  he  cried,  and  flung  his  arms  about  her, 
kissing  her  throat  and  her  checks  and  her  mouth. 
She  made  a  momentary  show  of  protest,  but  her  face 
was  smiling;  and  soon  he  felt  that  droop  of  the  limbs 
and  heard  that  inhalation  of  the  breath,  and  saw 
that  closing  of  the  eyes  which,  the  world  over,  are 
the  signs  of  a  woman's  capitulation.  No  further 
words  then  were  spoken;  but,  each  enfolded  in  the 
arms  of  the  other,  with  lips  pressed  to  lips,  they 


258  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

hung  as  it  were  suspended  between  matter  and  spirit, 
while  the  sun  tumbled  from  the  skies,  the  hills  of  the 
degert  were  shattered,  the  valleys  were  cleft  in 
twain,  and  there  came  into  being  for  them  a  new 
earth  and  a  new  heaven. 

When  at  length  they  stood  back  from  one  an- 
other, bewildered  and  spellbound,  their  whole  exist- 
ence had  undergone  an  irreparable  change;  and  each 
gazed  at  the  other  with  unveiled  eyes  which  revealed 
a  naked  soul.  Now  at  last,  as  by  an  instantaneous 
flash  of  the  miraculous  hand  of  Nature,  she  was  be- 
come blood  of  his  blood,  bone  of  his  bone,  and  they 
two  were  for  ever  merged  into  one  flesh. 

Quietly,  automatically,  she  put  away  her  brushes 
and  paints;  then,  coming  back  to  him  as  he  stood  star- 
ing at  her  with  a  dazed  expression  upon  his  swarthy 
face,  she  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  laid  her 
lips  upon  his  mouth. 

"I  never  knew,"  she  whispered,  "until  you  had 
gone  that  I  belonged  to  you  body  and  soul." 

He  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed  in  his  exalta- 
tion. "To-morrow,"  he  said,  "I  shall  go  to  the 
Consulate,  and  notify  them  that  we  arc  going  to 
be  married." 

She  nodded  her  head  calmly.  "Yes,"  she  smiled, 
"I  suppose  it's  too  late  to  do  it  to-day." 

The  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  Pyramids 
as  they  returned  with  linked  arms  to  the  hotel; 
and  for  a  moment  that  sense  of  foreboding  which  is 
so  often  felt  at  sunset  in  the  desert,  intruded  itself 
upon  his  dream  of  happiness.  There  were  banks 
of  menacing  cloud  gathered  upon  the  horizon;  and 
from  the  village  of  El  Kafr,  at  the  foot  of  the  Great 


DESTINY  259 

Pyramid,  there  came  the  far-off  throbbing  of  a  drum, 
a  sound  which  always  has  in  it  an  element  of  alarm. 

Jim  turned  to  Monime.  "Tell  me,"  he  urged, 
"that  you  have  no  doubts  left  in  your  mind." 

"No,  I  have  no  doubts,"  she  answered.  "You  and 
I  and  Ian — we  are  bound  together  now  right  to 
the  end.     It  is  Destiny." 

The  period  of  three  weeks  which,  by  consular 
law,  had  to  elapse  before  the  ceremony  of  their 
marriage  could  be  performed,  was  a  time  of  blissful 
happiness  to  Jim.  The  open  desert  with  Its  wind- 
swept spaces  of  glistening  sand,  and  Its  ranges  of 
low  hills  which  carried  the  eye  ever  forward  into 
its  mysterious  depths,  enthralled  him  like  an  endless 
tale  of  adventure,  or  like  a  native  flute-song  that 
rises  and  falls  in  continuous  changing  melody.  With 
Monime  he  left  the  hotel  each  morning,  and,  hav- 
ing conducted  her  to  her  tent,  he  would  wander  over 
the  untrodden  wastes  until  the  luncheon  hour  brought 
him  back  to  her  to  share  their  picnic  meal.  He 
would  come  to  her  again  at  sundown,  and  together 
they  would  stroll  back  to  civilization  in  time  to  see 
the  last  flush  fade  from  the  domes  and  minarets 
of  the  distant  city.  Or,  when  the  painter's  Inspira- 
tion failed  her,  they  would  mount  their  camels  and  go 
careering  into  the  wilderness,  riding  through  silent 
valleys  and  over  brec/.y  hills,  talking  eagerly  as 
they  went,  and  sending  their  laugiiter  echoing 
amongst  the  rocks. 

For  him  it  was  a  lazy,  sun-bathed  existence,  rich 
in  tlic  abundance  of  their  love,  and  unmarrcd  by  any 
cares.  lie  read  In  the  papers  that  the  trial  of  Jane 
Potts  would  not  take  place  before  Marcii;  and  with 


26o  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

that  assurance  he  returned  to  his  earlier  habit  of 
detachment  from  the  world's  doings,  and  did  not 
again  trouble  even  to  glance  at  the  news.  Life  was 
a  new  thing  to  him:  it  had  begun  again;  and  the 
tragic  events  of  the  past  were,  for  the  present,  able 
to  be  forgotten. 

Even  a  favourable  letter  from  the  publishers  to 
whom  he  had  sent  his  poems  hardly  aroused  his 
excitement,  so  deeply  was  he  in  love.  It  was  a 
somewhat  patronizing  letter,  in  which  no  great  con- 
sideration for  his  artistic  sensibilities  was  mani- 
fest. The  manuscript  was  accepted  for  publication 
some  time  in  the  spring,  on  moderately  satisfactory 
terms;  but  it  was  stated  that  the  firm's  discretion 
must  be  admitted,  and,  owing  to  his  inaccessibility, 
it  might  be  necessary  to  rely  on  their  own  "readers" 
in  the  correction  of  the  proofs.  He  was  told,  in 
fact,  to  leave  the  matter  in  their  hands,  and  not  to 
assert  himself  further  than  to  cable  his  consent  to 
this  agreement;  and  this  he  did,  without  giving  two 
thoughts  to  the  matter.  Some  ten  days  later  a  con- 
tract arrived,  which  he  was  requested  to  sign;  and 
having  done  so,  he  mailed  it  back  to  London,  and 
went  his  joyous  way. 

Monime  had  been  commissioned  to  paint  some 
pictures  of  the  great  rock-temple  of  Abu  Simbel, 
in  Lower  Nubia,  far  up  the  Nile;  and  it  was  there- 
fore decided  that  they  should  go  there  immediately 
after  their  marriage,  by  which  time  her  work  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Pyramids  would  be  completed. 
To  this  Jim  looked  forward  eagerly;  for  there  was 
something  akin  to  rapture  in  the  thought  of  faring 
forth,   alone   with  his  beloved,   into  distant  places, 


DESTINY  261 

where  they  would  be  undisturbed  by  the  proximity 
of  their  entirely  superfluous  fellow-creatures. 

At  length  the  great  day  arrived,  and,  driving 
into  Cairo,  they  were  married  in  ten  minutes  at 
the  Consulate,  and  thence  they  sped  across  to  the 
English  church,  where  the  religious  ceremony  was 
quietly  performed.  That  night,  as  in  a  dream,  they 
travelled  by  sleeping-car  to  Luxor,  and,  next  day, 
continued  their  ecstatic  way  to  the  Nubian  frontier. 
Here  the  railroad  terminates,  and  the  remainder  of 
the  journey,  therefore,  had  to  be  made  by  river. 

The  dahabiyeh  which  they  had  chartered  awaited 
them  at  Shallal,  over  against  Phihi?,  just  above  the 
First  Cataract;  and  their  settling  in  was  much  sim- 
plified by  the  fact  that  the  local  police  officer,  saunter- 
ing on  the  wharf,  recognized  Jim,  and  at  once  put 
himself  at  their  service.  He  had  been  in  charge  of 
the  camel  patrol  which  used  to  visit  the  gold  mines; 
and  Jim  had  shown  him  some  kindness,  which  now 
he  endeavoured  to  return  by  a  noisy  but  effective 
show  of  his  authority  and  patronage. 

The  vessel  was  not  large,  the  interior  accommoda- 
tion consisting  of  a  white-painted  saloon,  a  narrow 
passage,  from  which  a  small  cabin  and  a  bathroom 
led  off,  and  a  fair-sized  bedroom  at  the  stern.  Above 
their  apartments  was  the  deck,  across  which  awn- 
ings of  richly-coloured  Arab  tenting  were  drawn 
when  the  ship  was  not  under  sail.  In  the  prow  were 
the  kitchen  and  quarters  of  the  native  sailors. 

Abu  Simbcl  is  a  hundred  and  seventy  miles  up 
stream  from  Shallal;  and,  sailing  from  silver  dawn 
to  golden  sunset,  and  mooring  each  night  under  the 
jewelled  indigo  of  the  skies,   the  journey  occupied 


262  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

some  five  enchanted  days.  The  beauty  of  the  rugged 
country  and  their  own  hearts'  happiness,  caused  the 
hours  to  pass  with  the  rapidity  of  a  dream.  Even 
the  heat  of  the  powerful  sun  seemed  to  be  mitigated 
for  them  by  the  prevalent  north-west  wind,  which 
bellied  out  the  great  sail  and  drove  the  heavy  prow 
forward  so  that  it  divided  the  waters  into  two  sing- 
ing waves. 

Now  they  sailed  past  dense  and  silent  groves  of 
palms  backed  by  precipitous  rocks;  now  they  shat- 
tered the  reflections  of  glacier-like  slopes  of  yellow 
sand  marked  by  no  footprints;  and  now  they  glided 
into  the  shadow  of  dark  and  towering  cliffs.  Some- 
times a  ruined  and  lonely  temple  of  the  days  of  the 
Pharaohs  would  drift  across  the  theatre  of  their 
vision;  sometimes  the  huts  of  a  village,  built  upon 
the  shelving  sides  of  a  hill,  would  pass  before  their 
eyes  and  slide  away  into  the  distance ;  and  sometimes 
across  the  water  there  would  come  to  their  ears  the 
dreamy  creaking  of  a  sakiych,  or  water-wheel,  and 
the  song  of  the  naked  boy  who  drove  the  blind- 
folded oxen  round  and  round  its  rickety  platform. 

At  length  in  the  darkness  of  early  night  they 
moored  under  the  terrace  of  the  great  temple  of 
Abu  Simbel,  and  awoke  at  daybreak  to  see  from 
the  window  of  their  cabin  the  four  colossal  statues  of 
Rameses  gazing  high  across  their  little  vessel 
towards  the  dawn. 

These  mighty  figures,  sixty  feet  and  more  in 
height,  carved  out  of  the  face  of  the  cliff,  sit  in  a 
solemn  row,  two  on  each  side  of  the  doorway  which 
leads  into  the  vast  halls  excavated  in  the  living  rock. 
Their  serene  eyes  arc  fixed  upon  the  eastern  horizon. 


DESTINY  263 

their  lips  are  a  little  smiling,  their  hands  rest  placidly 
upon  their  knees;  and  now,  in  the  first  light  of  morn- 
ing, they  loomed  out  of  the  fading  shadow  like  cold, 
calm  figures  of  destiny,  knowing  all  that  the  day 
would  bring  forth  and  finding  in  that  knowledge  no 
cause  for  vexation. 

With  a  simultaneous  impulse  Jim  and  Monime 
rose  from  their  bed,  and,  quickly  dressing,  hastened 
up  the  sandy  path  to  the  terrace  of  the  temple,  that 
they  might  see  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  strike  upon 
those  great,  unblinking  eyes. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  Suddenly  a  warm 
flush  suffused  the  pale,  rigid  faces,  a  flush  that  did 
not  seem  to  be  thrown  from  the  sunrise.  It  was  as 
though  some  internal  flame  of  vitality  had  trans- 
muted the  hard  rock  into  living  flesh;  it  was  as 
though  the  blood  were  coursing  through  the  solid 
stone,  and  miraculous,  monstrous  life  were  come 
into  being  at  the  touch  of  the  god  of  the  sun.  The 
eyes  seemed  to  open  wider,  the  lips  to  be  about  to 
open,  the  nostrils  to  dilate.   .   .   . 

Monime  clasped  hold  of  Jim's  hand.  "They  are 
going  to  speak,"  she  exclaimed.  "They  are  going 
to  rise  up  from  their  four  thrones." 

In  awe  they  stood,  a  little  Hop  o'  my  Thumb  and 
his  wife,  staring  up  out  of  the  blue  shadows  of  the 
terrace  to  the  huge,  flushed  faces  above  them.  But 
the  miracle  was  quickly  ended.  The  sun  ascended 
from  behind  the  eastern  hills,  and  in  its  full  radi- 
ance the  colossal  figures  were  once  more  turned  to 
inanimate  stone,  to  wait  until  to-morrow's  recur- 
rence of  that  one  supreme  moment  in  which  the 
pulse  of  life  is  vouchsafed  to  them. 


Chapter  XIX:     LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

DURING  the  day  the  dahablyeh  was  towed 
a  few  yards  to  the  south  of  the  great  bluff 
of  rock  in  which  the  temple  is  cut,  and  was 
moored  In  a  small,  secluded  bay,  where  it  would  be 
sheltered  from  the  prying  eyes  of  tourists  who  would 
be  coming  ashore  from  the  weekly  steamer.  Here, 
on  the  one  side,  there  were  slopes  of  sand  topped 
by  palms  and  acacias,  behind  which  were  precipitous 
cliffs;  and,  on  the  other,  the  wide  river  stretched  out 
to  the  opposite  bank,  where,  amongst  the  trees  at 
the  foot  of  the  rocky  hills,  stood  the  brown  huts  of 
the  village  of  Farek. 

It  was  a  hot  little  cove,  and  by  day  the  sun  beat 
down  from  cloudless  blue  skies  upon  the  white 
dahablyeh;  but  the  richly-coloured  awnings  pro- 
tected the  deck,  and  a  constant  breeze  brought  a 
delectable  coolness  through  the  open  windows  of  the 
cabins  below,  fluttering  the  little  green  silk  curtains 
and  gently  swinging  the  hanging  lamps.  By  night 
the  moon  and  the  stars  shone  down  from  the  amaz- 
ing vault  of  the  heavens,  and  were  reflected  with 
such  clarity  in  the  still  water  of  the  bay  that  the 
vessel  seemed  to  be  floating  in  mid-air  with  planets 
above  and  below. 

A  scramble  over  the  sand  and  the  boulders  around 
the  foot  of  the  headland  brought  one  to  the  terraced 
forecourt  of  the  temple  where  sat  the  four  colossal 
statues;  and  at  the  side  of  this  there  was  a  mighty 

264 


LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS    265 

slope  of  golden  sand,  sweeping  down  from  the  sum- 
mit of  the  cliffs,  as  though  In  an  attempt  to  engulf 
the  whole  temple.  A  laborious  climb  up  this  drift 
led  to  the  flat,  open  desert,  which  extended  away 
Into  the  distance,  until,  sharply  defined  against  the 
Intense  blue  of  the  sky,  the  far  hills  of  the  horizon 
shut  off  the  boundless  and  vacant  spaces  of  the 
Sahara  beyond. 

It  was  a  place  which,  save  at  the  coming  of  the 
tourist  steamers,  was  isolated  from  the  modern 
world :  a  place  of  ancient  memories,  where  Hathor, 
goddess  of  love  and  local  patroness  of  these  hills, 
might  be  supposed  still  to  gaze  out  from  the  shadows 
of  the  rocks  with  languorous,  cow-like  eyes,  and  to 
cast  the  spell  of  her  influence  upon  all  who  chanced 
to  tread  this  holy  ground. 

Of  all  the  celestial  beings  worshipped  by  man- 
kind this  goddess  must  surely  make  the  fullest  appeal 
to  a  man  in  love,  for  she  is  the  deification  of  the 
eternal  feminine;  and  Jim,  having  lately  studied 
something  of  the  old  Egyptian  religion,  deemed  It 
almost  a  predestined  fate  that  had  brought  him  to 
this  territory  dedicated  to  a  goddess  who  personified 
those  very  qualities  that  he  loved  in  Monime. 

Hathor,  the  Ashtaroth  and  the  Istar  of  Asia,  was 
the  patroness  of  all  women.  Identified  with  IsIs, 
her  worship  extended  In  time  to  Rome,  where  she 
was  at  last  absorbed  Into  the  Christian  lore  and 
became  one  with  the  Madonna,  so  that  even  to  this 
day,  in  another  guise,  she  accepts  the  adoration  of 
countless  millions. 

Here  at  Abu  Simbel,  In  her  aspect  as  Lady  of 
the  Western  Hills,  she  received  into  her  divine  arms 


266  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

each  evening  the  descending  sun,  and  tended  him, 
as  a  woman  tends  a  man,  at  the  end  of  his  day's 
journey.  As  goddess  of  those  who,  like  the  sun, 
passed  down  in  death  to  the  nether  regions,  she 
appeared  as  a  mysterious  saviour  amidst  the  foliage 
of  her  sacred  sycamore,  and  gave  water  to  their 
thirsty  souls;  while  to  the  living  she  was  the  mistress 
of  love  and  laughter,  she  was  the  presiding  spirit  at 
every  marriage,  she  was  the  succouring  midwife  and 
the  tender  nurse  at  the  birth  of  every  child,  and 
upon  her  broad  bosom  every  dying  creature  laid  its 
weary  head. 

In  this  charmed  region,  where  yellow  rocks  and 
golden  sand,  green  trees  and  blue  waters,  were  met 
together  under  the  azure  sky,  which  again  was  one 
of  the  aspects  of  Hathor,  Jim  passed  his  days  in 
supreme  happiness,  now  working  with  tremendous 
mental  energy  at  some  poem  which  he  was  compos- 
ing, now  tramping  for  miles  over  the  high  plateau 
of  the  desert,  whistling  and  singing  as  he  went,  and 
now  basking  in  the  sun  upon  the  terrace  of  the  temple 
where  Monime  was  painting.  The  benign  influence 
of  the  great  goddess  seemed  to  act  upon  them,  for 
daily  their  love  grew  stronger,  working  at  them,  as 
it  were,  with  pliant  hands,  until  it  smoothed  out 
their  every  thought  and  rounded  their  every  action. 

Each  week  the  post-boat  on  its  way  to  Wady 
Haifa  delivered  to  them  a  letter  from  England  in 
which  lan's  nurse  gave  them  news  of  her  charge; 
but  this  was  almost  their  only  connection  with  the 
outside  world,  for  they  usually  avoided  the  temple 
when  the  weekly  party  of  tourists  were  ashore. 
Eagerly  they  read  these  letters,  which  told  of  the 


LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS     267 

boy's  boisterous  health  in  the  vigorous  air  of  an 
English  watering-place;  and  afterwards  they  would 
sit  hand-in-hand  talking  of  him  and  of  his  future. 
Jim  was  immensely  proud  of  his  son,  and  many 
were  the  plans  that  developed  in  his  head  for  the 
child's  happiness  and  good  standing.  It  would  not 
be  long  now  before  he  would  be  able  to  confess  to 
Monime  his  true  name  and  position,  and  to  tell  her 
that  a  home  and  an  income  were  assured  to  the  boy. 

Love  is  a  kind  of  interpreter  of  the  beauties  of 
nature;  and  in  these  sun-bathed  days  Jim's  heart 
seemed  to  be  opened  to  a  greater  appreciation  of  the 
wonders  of  creation  than  he  had  ever  known  before. 
In  the  winter  season  there  is  an  amazing  brilliancy 
of  colour  in  a  Nubian  landscape,  and  the  air  is  so 
clear  that  to  him  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  ever 
looking  at  some  vast  kaleidoscopic  pattern  of  glit- 
tering jewels  set  in  green  and  blue  and  gold,  to 
which  his  brain  responded  with  radiant  scintillations 
of  feeling. 

In  whatever  direction  his  eyes  chanced  to  turn  he 
found  some  sight  to  charm  him.  Now  it  was  a 
kingfisher  hovering  in  mid-air  beside  the  dahabiyeh, 
or  falling  like  a  stone  into  the  water;  now  it  was  a 
bronzed  goatherd,  flute  in  hand,  wandering  with 
his  flock  under  the  acacias  beside  the  water;  and 
now  it  was  a  desert  hare,  with  its  little  white  tail, 
bounding  away  over  the  plateau  at  the  summit  of 
the  cliffs.  Sometimes  a  great  flight  of  red  flamingos 
would  pass  slowly  across  the  blue  sky;  or  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night  the  whirr  of  unseen  wings 
would  tell  of  the  migration  of  a  flock  of  wild  duck. 
Sometimes  in  his  rambles  he  would  disturb  the  slum- 


268  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

bers  of  a  little  jackal,  which  would  go  scuttling  off 
into  the  desert,  while  he  waved  his  hand  to  it.  Or 
again,  a  lizard  basking  on  a  rock,  or  a  pair  of  white 
butterflies  dancing  in  the  sunlit  air,  would  hold  him 
for  a  moment  enthralled. 

The  grasses  and  creepers  which  grew  amidst  the 
tumbled  boulders  at  the  edge  of  the  Nile  would  now 
attract  his  attention;  and  again  a  great  palm, 
spreading  its  rustling  branches  to  the  sunlight  and 
casting  a  liquid  blue  shadow  upon  the  ground,  would 
hold  his  gaze.  Here  there  was  the  ribbed  back  of  a 
sand-drift  to  delight  him  with  its  symmetry;  there  a 
distant  headland  jutting  out  into  the  mirror  of  the 
water.  Sometimes  he  would  lie  face  downwards 
upon  the  sand  to  admire  the  vari-coloured  pebbles 
and  fragments  of  stone — gypsum,  quartz,  flint,  cor- 
nelian, diorite,  syenite,  haematite,  serpentine,  granite, 
and  so  forth ;  and  sometimes  he  would  go  racing  over 
the  desert,  bewitched  by  the  riotous  north  wind  itself 
and  the  sparkle  of  the  air. 

But  ever  he  came  back  at  length  to  the  woman 
who,  like  the  presiding  Hathor,  was  the  fount  of 
this  overflowing  happiness  of  his  heart.  In  the  glory 
of  the  day  he  watched  her  as  she  walked  in  the  sun- 
light, the  breeze  fluttering  her  pretty  dress,  or  as  she 
slid  with  him,  laughing,  down  the  slope  of  the  great 
sand-drift  beside  the  temple;  or  again  as  she  ran 
hand-in-hand  with  him  along  the  edge  of  the  river 
after  a  morning  swim,  her  black  hair  let  down  and 
tossing  about  her  shoulders. 

By  night  he  watched  her  as  she  stood  in  the  star- 
light, like  a  mysterious  spirit  of  this  ancient  land;  or 
as  she  came  out  from  the  dark  halls  of  the  temple, 


LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS     269 

like  the  goddess  herself,  gliding  towards  him  in  a 
moonbeam  with  divine  white  arms  extended,  and 
the  smile  of  everlasting  love  upon  her  shadowed  lips. 
In  the  dim  light  of  their  cabin  he  saw  her  as  she  lay 
by  his  side,  her  eyes  reflecting  the  gleam  of  the 
stars,  the  perfect  curve  of  her  breast  scarcely  appar- 
ent save  to  his  touch,  and  her  whispered  words 
coming  to  him  out  of  the  veil  of  the  midnight. 

It  is  not  easy  to  select  from  the  nebulous  narrative 
of  these  secluded  days  any  particular  occurrence 
which  may  here  be  recorded;  yet  there  was  no  lack 
of  incident,  no  dulness,  no  stagnation,  such  as  he 
had  experienced  in  the  seclusion  of  Evcrsfield.  To- 
w'ards  sunset  one  afternoon  he  and  she  were  walking 
together  upon  the  high  desert  at  the  summit  of  the 
cliffs,  and  were  traversing  an  area  which  in  Pha- 
raonic  days  was  used  as  a  cemetery.  Here  there  are 
a  number  of  small  square  tomb-shafts  cut  perpen- 
dicularly into  the  flat  surface  of  the  rock,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  the  mummies  of  the  Nubian  princes 
of  this  district  were  interred.  These  burials  have 
all  been  ransacked  in  past  ages  by  thieves  in  search 
of  the  golden  ornaments  which  were  placed  upon 
the  bodies;  and  now  the  shafts  lie  open,  partially 
filled  with  blown  sand. 

Presently  Jim  paused  to  throw  a  stone  at  a  mark 
which  chanced  to  present  itself;  but,  missing  his 
aim,  he  picked  up  a  handful  of  pebbles  and  threw 
them  one  by  one  at  his  target  until  his  idle  purpose 
was  accomplished.  Meanwhile  Monimc  had  strolled 
ahead,  and  Jim  now  ran  forward  to  overtake  her. 
The  setting  sun,  however,  dazzled  his  eyes,  and 
suddenly  he  stumbled  at  the  brink  of  one  of  these 
open   tombs.      There    was   a    confused   moment  in 


270  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

which  he  clutched  desperately  at  the  edge  of  the 
rock,  and  then,  falling  backwards,  his  head  struck 
the  side  of  the  shaft,  and  he  went  crashing  to  the 
bottom,  twenty  feet  below,  landing  upon  the  soft 
sand  with  a  thud  which  seemed  to  shake  the  very 
teeth  in  his  jaws. 

For  some  moments  he  sat  dazed,  while  little  points 
of  light  danced  before  his  eyes,  and  the  blood  slowly 
ran  down  his  cheek  from  a  wound  amidst  his  hair. 
Then  he  looked  around  him  at  the  four  solid  walls 
which  imprisoned  him,  and  up  at  the  square  of  the 
blue  sky  above  him,  and  swore  aloud  at  himself 
for  a  fool. 

A  few  seconds  later  the  horrified  face  of  Monime 
came  into  view  at  the  top  of  the  shaft,  and,  to  re- 
assure her,  he  broke  into  laughter,  telling  her  he 
was  unhurt  and  describing  how  the  accident  had 
happened. 

"But  your  head's  bleeding,"  she  cried  in  anguish. 
"Where's  your  handkerchief?" 

"Haven't  got  one,"  he  laughed.  "Lend  me  yours." 

She  threw  down  to  him  an  absurd  little  wisp  of 
cambric,  with  which  he  endeavoured  vainly  to 
staunch  the  red  flow. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said.  "It's  only  a  little  cut. 
How  the  devil  am  I  to  get  out  of  this?" 

She  plied  him  with  anxious  questions;  and  pres- 
ently, recklessly  ripping  off  the  flounce  of  her  muslin 
dress,  she  tossed  it  to  him,  telling  him  to  bandage 
the  wound  with  It. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  go  back  to  the  boat," 
he  said,  "and  get  a  rope  and  a  sailor  to  hold  it. 
I'm  most  awfully  sorry." 

She  would  not  go  for  help  until  she  had  satisfied 


LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS     271 

herself  that  he  was  In  no  danger;  and  when  at  last 
she  left  him  it  was  with  the  assurance  that  she  would 
be  back  with  all  possible  speed. 

"Try  rolling  down  the  big  sand-drift,"  he  said, 
anxious  to  be  jocular.  "It's  the  quickest  way.  I  did 
it  yesterday,  and  was  down  in  no  time.  It's  a  pity 
you  haven't  a  tea-tray  about  you :  it  makes  a  fine 
toboggan." 

But  when  he  was  alone  he  leant  heavily  against 
the  wall,  feeling  dizzy  from  the  loss  of  blood  and 
suffering  considerable  pain.  Presently  his  attention 
was  attracted  by  one  of  those  hard,  black  desert 
beetles  which  are  to  be  seen  so  frequently  in  Egypt 
parading  busily  over  the  sand  with  creaking  armour : 
it  was  hurrying  to  and  fro  at  the  foot  of  the  wall, 
vainly  seeking  for  a  way  of  escape  from  the  prison 
into  which  it  had  evidently  tumbled  but  a  short  time 
before.  Upon  the  sand  around  him  there  were  the 
dried  remains  of  others  of  its  tribe  which  had  fallen 
down  the  shaft  and  had  perished  of  starvation;  and 
in  one  corner  there  was  the  skeleton  of  a  jerboa 
which  had  died  in  like  manner. 

For  a  considerable  time  he  sat  staring  stupidly  at 
this  beetle  and  mopping  his  head  witli  the  muslin 
flounce;  but  at  last  Monime  returned  with  two  native 
sailors,  who  speedily  lowered  a  rope  to  him.  To 
climb  the  twenty  feet  to  the  surface,  however,  was 
no  easy  matter  in  his  stiff  and  exhausted  condition; 
and  very  laboriously  he  pulled  himself  up,  barking 
his  shins  and  his  knuckles  painfully  against  the  rock. 

He  had  nearly  reached  the  top  when  suddenly  he 
remembered  the  imprisoned  beetle;  and  his  fertile 
imagination  pictured,  as  in  a  flash,  its  lingering  death. 
"Wait   a  minute,"   he  said,   "I've   forgotten  some- 


272  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

thing."  And  down  the  rope  he  slid  to  the  bottom, 
while  Monime  wrung  her  hands  above. 

He  picked  up  the  beetle.  "Come  along,  old 
sport,"  he  whispered.  "Blessed  if  I  hadn't  forgotten 
all  about  you."  He  placed  the  little  creature  in  the 
pocket  of  his  coat,  and  once  more  began  the  painful 
ascent.  The  exertion,  however,  had  opened  the 
wound  again,  and  now  the  blood  ran  down  his  face 
as  he  strained  and  swung  on  the  rope.  His  strength 
seemed  to  have  deserted  him,  and  had  it  not  been 
for  the  two  sailors  who  drew  him  up  bodily  as  he 
clung,  and  at  last  caught  hold  of  him  under  the 
arms,  he  would  have  fallen  back  into  the  shaft. 

No  sooner  had  he  reached  the  surface  than  he 
carefully  took  the  beetle  from  his  pocket,  and  sent 
it  on  its  way.  Then  turning  to  Monime,  who  had 
knelt  on  the  ground,  he  obeyed  her  order  to  lie  down 
and  place  his  head  upon  her  knee,  whereupon  she 
began  to  bathe  the  wound  with  water  from  a  bottle 
she  had  brought  with  her.  She  had  also  remem- 
bered, even  in  her  haste,  to  bring  scissors  and  ban- 
dages; and  now  with  deft  fingers  she  cut  away  the 
Jiair  from  around  the  wound,  and  bound  up  his 
head  with  almost  professional  skill. 

The  two  sailors  were  presently  sent  back  to  the 
dahabiyeh,  and,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight, 
she  bent  over  his  upturned  face  and  kissed  him  again 
and  again.  To  his  great  surprise  he  felt  her  tears 
upon  his  cheek. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  tenderly 
passing  the  back  of  his  hand  across  her  eyes.  "Did 
I  give  you  an  awful  fright?" 

"No,  it  isn't  that,"  she  answered,  trying  to  smile. 
"I'm  only  being  sentimental.     I  was  thinking  about 


LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS     273 

your  beetle,  and  about  the  text  in  the  Bible  that 
says,  'Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the 
least  of  these  .  .  .'  " 

It  was  not  many  days  before  Jim  had  fully  re- 
covered from  his  hurts.  The  bracing  air  of  Lower 
Nubia  at  this  season  of  the  year  is  not  conducive  to 
sickness.  The  vigorous  north-west  wind  seems  to 
sweep  the  mind  clear  of  all  suggestion  of  ailment, 
and  the  sun  to  purge  it  of  even  the  thought  of  in- 
firmity. Monime,  indeed,  had  difficulty  in  persuad- 
ing him  to  submit  at  all  to  her  ministrations,  dear 
though  they  were  to  him;  for  the  heart  is  here  set 
upon  the  idea  of  physical  well-being,  and  nature 
thus  heals  herself. 

Sometimes,  as  Jim  walked  upon  the  cliffs  in  the 
splendour  of  the  day,  his  nerves  tingling  with  the 
joy  of  life,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  those  long 
years  at  Eversfield,  and  he  compared  his  present 
attitude  of  mind  with  that  he  had  known  at  the 
manor.  There  the  grey  steeples  and  towers  of 
Oxford,  seen  beyond  the  haze  of  the  trees,  were 
sedative  and  subduing.  There  the  passionate  heart 
was  tempered,  the  violent  thought  was  sobered,  the 
emotions  were  quieted. 

But  here  the  brilliant  sunlight,  the  sparkling  air, 
and  the  great  open  spaces,  induced  a  grand  heed- 
lessness, a  fine  improvidence,  a  riotous  prodigality 
of  the  forces  of  life.  Here  a  man  lived,  and  knew 
no  more  than  that  he  lived;  nor  did  he  care  what 
things  the  future  held  in  store  for  him.  During 
these  weeks  Jim  gave  no  thouglit  to  his  coming 
movements,  save  in  a  very  general  way.  His  mind 
leapt  across  the  abyss  of  difficulties  which  lay  in  his 


274  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

path,  and  arrived  at  the  fair  places  beyond,  where 
Monime  and  Ian  were  to  travel  hand-in-hand  with 
him. 

His  attitude  towards  his  little  son  was  shaping 
itself  in  his  mind  at  this  time  into  some  sort  of  clear 
recognition  of  his  parental  responsibilities,  vague 
perhaps,  but  none  the  less  sincere.  As  an  instance  of 
this  development  in  his  character  mention  may  be 
made  of  a  certain  sunset  hour  in  which  he  and  Moni- 
me were  seated  together  upon  the  high  ground  over- 
looking the  vast  expanse  of  the  desert  to  westward 
of  the  Nile. 

In  this  direction,  behind  the  far  horizon,  lay 
the  unexplored  Sahara,  extending  in  awful  solitude 
across  the  whole  African  continent  to  its  western 
shores,  three  thousand  miles  away.  For  a  thousand 
miles  and  more  this  vast  and  almost  uninhabited 
land  of  silence  is  known  as  the  Libyan  Desert. 
Behind  this  is  the  great  Tuareg  country,  extending 
for  another  fifteen  hundred  miles;  and  beyond  this 
lies  the  ancient  land  of  Mauretania,  where  at  last, 
in  the  region  of  Rio  de  Oro,  there  is  again  a 
populated  country. 

In  no  other  part  of  the  world  can  a  man  stand 
facing  so  huge  a  tract  of  uncharted  country,  and  no- 
where does  the  call  of  the  unknown  come  with  such 
insistence  to  the  ears  of  the  imagination.  In  this 
untenanted  area  there  is  room  for  many  an  undis- 
covered kingdom,  and  hidden  somewhere  amidst  its 
barren  hills  and  plains  there  may  be  cities  and 
peoples  cut  off  from  the  outer  world  these  many 
thousands  of  years. 

It  is  the  largest  of  the  world's  remaining  areas 


LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS     275 

of  mystery;  it  is  the  greatest  of  all  the  regions  still 
to  be  explored;  for  the  sterile  and  waterless  desert 
holds  its  secrets  secure  by  the  fear  of  hunger  and 
the  terror  of  thirst.  The  inhabitants  of  the  Nile 
Valley  declare  to  a  man  that  somewhere  in  this  wil- 
derness there  stands  a  city  of  gold,  whose  shining 
cupolas  and  domes  are  as  dazzling  as  the  sun  itself, 
and  whose  streets  are  paved  with  precious  stones. 

Jim  had  often  talked  to  the  natives  in  regard  to 
this  lost  city,  and  all  had  assured  him  that  it  truly 
existed,  though  no  living  eyes  had  seen  it. 

On  this  particular  occasion,  as  he  watched  the 
sun  go  down  amidst  the  distant  hills  which  were 
the  first  outworks  in  the  defences  of  these  impreg- 
nable secrets,  he  was  overwhelmed  with  the  desire 
to  penetrate,  if  only  for  a  few  hundred  miles,  into 
this  mysterious  territory,  and  eagerly  he  spoke  to 
Monime  in  regard  to  the  possibilities  of  such  an 
expedition. 

She  sighed.  "I  shouldn't  be  able  to  come  with 
you,  Jim,"  she  said,  "however  much  I  should  long 
to  do  so.     I  have  to  consider  Ian  first." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  at  once.  "I  was  not  really 
speaking  seriously.  The  thought  of  what  may  lie 
hidden  over  there  sets  one  dreaming;  but  actually 
I  wouldn't  feel  it  right  now  to  go  hunting  for  fabu- 
lous cities." 

He  spoke  with  sincerity,  and  it  was  only  after 
the  words  were  uttered  that  he  realized  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  his  outlook.  No  longer 
was  he  free  to  act  as  he  chose:  he  had  to  consider 
the  interests  of  another,  and,  strange  to  relate,  he 
was  quite  willing  to  do  so. 


Chapter  XX:     THE  ARM  OF  THE  LAW 

AT  high  noon  upon  a  morning  towards  the 
end  of  January,  Jim  happened  to  saunter 
across  the  hot  sand  to  the  terrace  of  the 
temple  where  Monlme  was  painting,  and  there  found 
her  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  benevolent,  grey- 
bearded  clergyman  and  a  stout,  beaming  woman  who 
appeared  to  be  his  wife,  both  of  whom  wore  blue 
spectacles,  carried  large  white  umbrellas  lined  with 
green,  and  wore  pith  helmets  adorned  with  green 
veiling — appurtenances  which  stamped  them  as 
tourists.  Jim  himself  was  somewhat  disreputably 
dressed,  having  a  slouch  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a 
canvas  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  a  pair  of  well-worn 
flannel  trousers  held  up  by  an  old  leather  belt,  and 
red  native  slippers  upon  his  bare  feet,  and  he  there- 
fore hesitated  to  approach. 

Monime,  however,  beckoned  to  him  to  come  to 
her,  and,  when  he  had  done  so,  introduced  him  to 
her  new  friends,  whose  acquaintance,  it  was  ex- 
plained, she  had  made  an  hour  previously.  The 
clergyman,  it  appeared,  whose  name  was  Jones,  was 
a  man  of  some  wealth  who  was  now  touring  these 
upper  reaches  of  the  Nile  on  a  small  private  steamer, 
in  search  of  the  good  health  of  which  his  work  in 
the  underworld  of  London  had  deprived  him;  and 
Monime,  in  taking  the  trouble  to  show  him  and  his 

wife  around  the  temple,  perhaps  had  a  woman's  eye 

276 


THE  ARM  OF  THE  LAW         277 

to  business,  for  a  painter,  after  all,  has  wares  for 
sale,  and  is  dependent  on  the  conversion  of  all  colours 
into  plain  gold. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  she  now  invited  them  to  lunch- 
eon upon  the  dahabiyeh,  and  Jim,  not  to  be  churlish, 
was  obliged  to  support  the  suggestion  with  every 
mark  of  assent. 

The  meal  was  served  under  the  awnings,  and  when 
coffee  had  been  drunk  Monime  took  Mrs.  Jones 
down  to  the  saloon,  while  the  two  men  were  left  to 
smoke  on  deck.  Jim  was  in  a  communicative  mood, 
and  for  some  time  entertained  his  guest  with  narra- 
tions of  his  adventures  in  many  lands,  being  careful, 
however,  to  draw  a  veil  over  the  years  he  had  spent 
in  England.  The  clergyman  responded,  at  length, 
with  tales  of  his  life  in  the  slums,  expressing  the 
opinion  that,  owing  to  the  failure  of  the  Church  to 
adapt  itself  to  the  exigencies  of  the  present  day, 
callousness  in  regard  to  crime  was  on  the  increase. 

"Here's  an  instance  of  what  I  mean,"  he  said. 
"I  was  walking  late  one  night  along  a  well-known 
London  street  when  I  was  accosted  by  a  young 
woman  who,  in  spite  of  my  cloth  and  my  age,  made 
certain  suggestions  to  me.  I  was  so  astounded  that 
I  stopped  and  spoke  to  her,  and  presently  she  con- 
fessed to  me  that  this  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
done  such  a  thing,  but  that  she  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  a  penniless  man,  antl  somehow  money 
had  to  be  obtained.  Now  there's  callousness  for 
you!     Can  you  imagine  such  a  proceeding?" 

"Yes,  that's  pretty  low  down,"  Jim  answered. 
"What  did  you  do?" 

The   clergyman    smiled.      "Ah,    that   Is   another 


278  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

story,"  he  said.  "To  test  her  I  told  her  to  come 
to  my  house  the  next  day  and  to  bring  her  fiance 
with  her;  and  to  my  surprise  they  turned  up.  Well, 
to  cut  the  story  short,  I  agreed  to  set  them  up  in 
business,  and  I  gave  them  quite  a  large  sum  of  money 
for  the  purpose,  hardly  expecting,  however,  that  it 
would  prove  anything  but  a  dead  loss.  You  may 
imagine  my  gratification,  therefore,  when  I  began 
to  receive  regular  quarterly  repayments,  each  ac- 
companied by  a  gracious  little  letter  of  thanks  stat- 
ing that  things  were  prospering  splendidly.  At  last 
the  whole  debt  was  paid  off,  and  the  woman  came 
to  see  me,  smartly  dressed,  and  in  the  best  of  spirits. 
I  congratulated  her  on  her  honesty,  and  told  her  that 
her  action  had  strengthened  my  belief  in  the  basic 
goodness  of  human  nature." 

"  'Well,  you  see,'  she  said,  'we  felt  we  ought  to 
pay  our  debt  to  you,  as  we  had  made  in  the  business 
ten  times  the  original  sum  you  gave  us.' 

"  'And  what  is  the  business?'  I  asked. 

"  'Oh,'  she  said,  'we  are  running  a  brothel.'  " 

Jim  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed.  "That's 
an  instance  of  the  evils  of  indiscriminate  charity," 
he  said. 

"It  is  a  sign  of  the  times,"  his  guest  replied,  seri- 
ously. "Look  at  the  callous  crimes  of  which  we  read 
in  the  newspapers.  Take,  for  instance,  the  Evers- 
field  case." 

Jim's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  "I  haven't 
been  reading  the  papers  lately,"  he  stammered.  "I 
haven't  heard  .  .  ."     His  voice  failed  him. 

"Oh,  it's  a  shocking  case,"  said  Mr.  Jones,  but  to 
Jim  his  words  were  as  though   they  came  from  a 


THE  ARM  OF  THE  LAW         279 

great  distance  or  were  heard  above  the  noise  of  a 
tempest.  "A  young  woman,  the  lady  of  the  manor, 
was  found  murdered  in  her  own  woods,  and  at  first 
the  police  thought  that  the  crime  had  been  commit- 
ted by  a  certain  Jane  Potts  who  was  jealous  of  her. 
But  she  proved  her  innocence,  and  then  the  mother 
of  the  murdered  woman,  a  Mrs.  Darling,  admitted 
that  her  daughter's  husband,  who  had  been  sup- 
posed to  be  dead,  was  actually  alive,  and  had  visited 
his  wife  on  the  day  of  the  crime.  It  seems  that  he 
had  wanted  to  rid  himself  of  her  by  divorce,  but 
something  happened  which  induced  him  to  kill  her 
instead." 

Jim's  brain  was  seething.  "But  if  he  was  guilty, 
why  did  he  go  to  see  Mrs.  Darling  afterwards?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  then  you  have  read  about  the  case,"  said 
his  guest,  glancing  at  him  quickly, 

Jim  struggled  inwardly  to  be  calm  and  to  rectify 
his  mistake.  'Tes,"  he  answered,  "I  remember  it 
now." 

Mr.  Jones  bent  forward  in  his  chair  and  tapped 
his  host's  knee.  "Mark  my  words,"  he  declared, 
"that  man  is  an  out-and-out  villain.  He  had  deserted 
his  wife,  and  had  let  it  be  thouj.'^ht  that  he  was  dead; 
and  then,  I  suppose  because  he  was  short  of  money, 
he  came  home,  and  murdered  her  when  she  refused 
to  give  him  any.  My  theory  is  that  he  believed  he 
had  been  seen  by  somebody,  and  therefore  deter- 
mined to  brazen  it  out  by  calling  on  his  mother-in- 
law.     He  is  evidently  of  the  callous  kind." 

Jim  had  the  feeling  that  he  himself,  his  ego,  had 
become    detached    from    his    brain's    consciousness. 


28o  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

Distantly,  he  could  hear  every  word  that  was  being 
said,  yet  at  the  same  time  his  mind  was  in  confusion, 
in  pandemonium.  He  looked  down  from  afar  off  at 
his  body,  and  wondered  whether  the  trembling  of 
his  hand  was  noticeable.  He  could  listen  to  himself 
speaking,  and  desperately  he  struggled  to  control 
his  words. 

"What  d'you  think  will  happen?"  he  asked,  pass- 
ing his  fingers  to  and  fro  across  his  lips.  The  sudden 
dryness  of  his  mouth  had  produced  a  sort  of  click  in 
his  words  which  he  endeavoured  thus  to  mitigate. 

"Oh,  they'll  catch  him  in  time,"  Mr.  Jones  re- 
plied, "though  Mrs.  Darling's  reprehensible  conduct 
in  keeping  the  facts  to  herself  for  so  long  has  helped 
him  to  get  clear  away.  His  description  is  in  all  the 
papers — dark  hair  and  eyes;  clean-shaven;  sallow 
complexion;  athletic  build;  five  foot  ten  in 
height.   .   .   ." 

Jim  smiled  in  a  sickly  manner.  "That  might 
describe  me,"  he  said,  and  laughed. 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Jones  responded,  "I'm  afraid  it's 
not  much  to  go  on;  but  they'll  get  him,  believe  me. 
I  expect  they'll  publish  a  photograph  soon." 

Jim  drew  his  Breath  between  his  teeth,  and  again 
his  heart  seemed  to  be  arrested  in  its  beating.  He 
wanted  to  rise  from  his  chair  and  to  run  from  the 
dahabiyeh.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  agitation  must 
be  wholly  apparent  to  his  guest:  a  man's  entire  life 
could  not  be  shattered  and  fall  to  pieces  in  such 
utter  ruin  with  no  outward  sign  of  the  devastation. 

He  was  about  to  make  a  move  of  some  sort  to 
end  the  ordeal  when  Monime  appeared  upon  the 
steps  leading  up  from  the  saloon,  and  invited  Mr. 


THE  ARM  OF  THE  LAW         281 

Jones  to  come  down  to  see  some  of  her  paintings. 
He  rose  at  once  to  comply;  and  thereupon  Jim 
lurched  from  his  chair,  and,  holding  on  to  the  table 
before  him,  looked  wildly  towards  the  slopes  of 
golden  sand  which  could  be  seen  between  the  vari- 
coloured hangings. 

Monime  came  over  to  him  as  the  clergyman  dis- 
appeared down  the  stairs.  "Hullo,  Jim,"  she  said, 
"you  look  ill,  dear.     Is  anything  the  matter?" 

He  tried  to  laugh.  "No,"  he  answered  sharply. 
"Why  should  you  think  so?  I'm  all  right — only 
rather  bored  by  your  talkative  friend." 

She  put  her  arm  about  him  and  kissed  him:  then, 
suddenly  standing  back  from  him,  she  looked 
anxiously  into  his  face.  "You  are  ill,"  she  said. 
"Your  forehead  is  burning  hot.  You've  been  out 
in  the  sun  without  your  hat.  Oh,  Jim,  you  are  so 
careless!" 

For  a  moment  his  knees  gave  way  under  him,  and 
he  swayed  visibly  as  he  stood.  "Tm  all  right,  I  tell 
you,"  he  gasped.  "Go  and  show  them  your 
pictures." 

Monimc's  consternation  was  not  able  to  be  con- 
cealed. "Oh,  my  darling,"  she  cried,  "you're  fever- 
ish!  You  must  go  and  lie  down.  I'll  get  rid  of 
these  people  presently:  I'll  tell  them  you  are  not 
well.   .   .   ." 

Jim  interrupted  her.  "No,  no! — don't  say  any- 
thing. I  assure  you  it's  nothing.  I'll  be  all  right  in 
a  few  minutes.     I'll  just  sit  here  quietly." 

He  pushed  her  from  him,  and  obliged  her,  pres- 
ently, to  leave  him;  but  no  sooner  was  she  gone  than 
he  hastened  to  the  zir,  or  large  porous  earthenware 


282  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

vessel,  which  stood  at  the  end  of  the  deck  and  in 
which  the  "drinks"  were  kept  cool,  and,  selecting  a 
bottle  of  whisky,  poured  a  stiff  dose  into  a  tumbler, 
swallowing  the  draught  in  two  or  three  hasty  gulps. 
Thus  fortified,  he  paced  to  and  fro,  staring  before 
him  with  unseeing  eyes,  until  Monime  and  their 
guests  returned. 

His  anxiety  not  to  appear  ill  at  ease  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones  led  him  to  talk  rapidly 
upon  a  variety  of  disconnected  subjects;  but  his  re- 
lief was  great  when,  with  umbrellas  raised  and  blue 
spectacles  adjusted,  they  took  their  departure  and 
walked  away  over  the  hot  sand  towards  their  own 
vessel.  Thereupon  he  hastened  to  assure  Monime 
that  his  indisposition  had  passed;  and  soon  he  had 
the  satisfaction  of  observing  that  her  anxieties  were 
allayed.  But  when  she  had  gone  back  to  her  painting 
at  the  temple,  he  left  the  dahabiyeh,  and,  scrambling 
up  the  sand-drift  like  one  demented,  went  running 
over  the  vacant,  sun-scorched  plateau  at  the  summit 
of  the  cliffs,  flinging  himself  at  length  upon  the 
ground,  where  no  eyes  save  those  of  the  circling 
vultures  might  see  his  abject  misery,  and  no  ears 
might  hear  his  groans. 

In  the  days  which  followed  he  so  far  mastered 
his  emotions  as  to  give  his  wife  no  great  cause  for 
worry;  but  from  time  to  time  he  could  see  in  her 
troubled  face  her  consciousness  that  all  was  not  well. 
On  such  occasions  the.extremity  of  human  wretched- 
ness seemed  to  be  reached,  and  the  weight  upon  his 
heart  and  mind  was  almost  intolerable. 

It  was  not  personal  fear  of  the  scaffold  that  spread 
this  horror  along  every  nerve   and  tlirough  every 


THE  ARM  OF  THE  LAW         283 

vein  of  his  body:  it  was  the  thought  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  avoid  involving  Monime  and  their  son 
in  the  catastrophe,  and  that  not  only  would  he  dis- 
grace them,  but  would  alienate  them  from  him  com- 
pletely. He  realized  now  the  enormity  of  his 
offence  in  holding  back  from  Monime  the  truth  about 
his  former  marriage  and  in  shutting  her  out  from 
his  confidences. 

What  would  she  do  when  she  learnt  the  facts? 
Could  she  possibly  understand  and  forgive?  Would 
the  pain  that  he  was  to  bring  upon  her  turn  her  love 
into  hatred  and  contempt?  Would  she,  the  pas- 
sionate mother,  forgive  the  wrong  he  had  done  to 
their  son  in  placing  this  stigma  upon  him? 

Thoughts  such  as  these  drove  him  to  the  brink  of 
madness;  and  the  need  of  secrecy  and  of  facing  the 
situation  by  himself  produced  an  unbearable  sense 
of  loneliness  in  his  mind.  He  recalled  the  verse  in 
the  Book  of  Genesis  which  reads:  "The  Lord  God 
said,  'It  is  not  good  that  man  should  be  alone;  I 
will  make  him  an  help  meet  for  him.'  "  If  only  he 
could  tell  her  now,  pour  out  his  heart  to  her,  and 
sec  in  her  tender  eyes  the  overwhelming  sweetness 
of  her  understanding.  .  .  .  But  he  dared  not:  he 
must  fight  this  battle  alone. 

Gradually  there  developed  in  his  brain  the  thought 
of  suicide.  Were  he  now  to  destroy  himself  in 
some  manner  which  would  suggest  an  accident,  it 
would  be  Jim  Laston  who  would  be  laid  in  the 
grave,  without  a  stain  upon  his  public  memory;  and 
the  lost  James  Tundering-West,  the  supposed 
murderer,  would  not  be  connected  in  any  way  with 
Monime   or    Ian.      Without   question    this   was   the 


284  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

only  solution  of  the  problem;  this  was  the  only 
honourable  course  to  follow,  and  follow  it  he  must. 

He  found  in  this  resolution  a  means  of  steadying 
his  mind  and  of  regaining  to  some  extent  his  equilib- 
rium. There  was  a  fortnight  yet  before  their  return 
to  the  lower  reaches  of  the  Nile  would  bring  matters 
towards  their  final  phase.  Monime  wished  to  go  to 
Europe  as  soon  as  her  work  was  finished,  in  order  to 
be  with  Ian  again;  and  it  would  not  be  necessary  for 
Jim  to  put  an  end  to  himself,  therefore,  until  he 
came  within  reach  of  the  arm  of  the  law.  Here  at 
Abu  Simbel  he  could  easily  avoid  seeing  any  of  his 
fellow  men  who  might  visit  the  temple  from  the 
tourist  steamers;  and,  fortunately,  his  friend  the 
police  oflicer  at  Shallal  who  had  helped  him  to  em- 
bark on  the  dahabiyeh,  knew  him  these  many  years 
as  Mr.  Easton,  presumably  a  resident  in  Egypt,  and 
would  vouch  for  him  if  occasion  arose.  Very  pos- 
sibly he  might  reach  Cairo  or  even  the  homeward- 
bound  liner  without  detection.  Then,  an  accidental 
fall  at  midnight  from  the  deck  into  the  sea — and  his 
obligation  would  be  honourably  fulfilled. 

Yes,  that  was  it:  that  was  his  obligation.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  understood  thoroughly  and 
wholly  the  meaning  of  the  word.  "It  is  my  duty," 
he  muttered  over  and  over  again.  "It  is  my  duty  at 
all  costs  to  prevent  any  scandal  which  would  hurt 
Monime  or  Ian."  He  had  so  often  asked  himself 
the  meaning  of  that  strange  term  "duty,"  and  now 
he  knew.     Love  had  taught  him. 

Fortunately,  Monime  was  very  hard  at  work  on 
the  completion  of  her  paintings,  and  he  was  there- 
fore able  to  go  away  alone  into  the  desert  for  hours 


THE  ARM  OF  THE  LAW         285 

at  a  time,  under  the  pretence  of  writing  his  verses, 
and  thus  obtain  a  respite  from  the  strain  of  appear- 
ing cheerful  and  normal.  The  great  untenanted 
spaces  soothed  the  chimour  of  his  brain  ;  and,  wander- 
ing there  alone  over  the  golden  sand  or  the  shelving 
rocks,  in  the  blazing  sunlight,  between  the  vacancy 
of  earth  and  the  void  of  heaven,  there  passed  Into 
his  mind  a  kind  of  calmness  which  remained  with 
him  when  IVIonlme  was  agaln'at  his  side. 

But  the  nights  were  made  fearful  to  him  lest  in 
his  sleep  he  should  reveal  his  secret.  He  would 
lie  awake  hour  after  hour  in  the  darkness,  while 
Monime  slept  peacefully,  her  head  upon  his  en- 
circling arm,  her  black  hair  tumbled  about  his 
shoulder,  her  breast  against  his  breast,  and  he  would 
not  dare  to  shut  his  eyes.  Sometimes,  his  weariness 
overcoming  his  will,  he  would  drop  into  oblivion, 
only  to  waken  again  with  a  start  which  caused  her 
to  turn  or  to  mutter  in  her  slumbers.  Once  he 
woke  up  thus,  knowing  that  he  had  just  uttered  the 
words  "Not  guilty,"  and  in  an  agony  of  fear  he 
waited,  propped  on  his  elbow,  to  ascertain  whether 
she  had  heard  him  or  not.  She  was  asleep,  however, 
and  with  beating  pulse  he  fell  back  at  length  upon 
the  pillows,  the  cold  sweat  upon  his  face. 

During  these  days,  which  he  recognized  as  his 
last  upon  earth,  he  allowed  himself  to  drown  his 
sorrow  In  the  full  flood  of  his  love;  and,  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  he  overwhelmed  Monlmc  in  the 
tide  of  his  adoration,  sweeping  her  along  with  him 
so  that  there  were  times  when  the  breath  of  life 
seemed  to  fail  them,  and  the  silent  rapture  of  their 
hearts  had  near  kinship  with  the  quiescence  of  death. 


286  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

There  were  times  when  it  was  as  though  he  were 
eager  to  die  upon  her  lips,  and  so  to  pass  in  ecstasy 
into  the  hollow  acreage  of  heaven.  There  were 
times  when  by  the  might  of  his  passion  he  seemed  to 
lift  her,  clasped  in  his  arms,  into  the  regions  beyond 
the  planets,  there  to  revolve  in  the  exaltation  of 
dream,  round  and  round  the  universe,  until  the 
sound  of  the  last  trump  should  hurl  their  inseparable 
souls  headlong  into  the  abyss  of  time  and  space. 

But  between  these  spells  of  enchantment  there 
were  periods  of  deep  and  horrible  gloom  in  which 
he  cursed  himself  for  his  mistakes,  and  railed  against 
man  and  God. 

"How  I  hate  myself!"  he  muttered.  "Life  is  like 
a  prison  cell  where  you  and  your  deadly  enemy  are 
locked  in  together." 

Standing  at  the  summit  of  the  cliffs  above  the 
temple,  he  would  shake  his  fists  at  the  blue  depths 
of  the  sky,  or,  with  bronzed  arms  folded,  would 
stare  down  at  the  rippling  waters  of  the  Nile,  and 
kick  the  pebWes  over  the  precipice.  Occasionally, 
'too,  he  turned  for  comfort  to  his  guitar;  and  at 
the  river's  brink,  or  in  the  shade  of  an  acacia  tree, 
he  would  sit  twanging  the  strings  and  singing  some 
outlandish  song,  his  head  bent  over  the  instrument 
and  his  dark  hair  falling  over  his  face. 

As  the  day  of  their  departure  drew  near  these 
periods  of  gloom  increased  in  frequency,  and  he 
was  often  aware  that  the  troubled  eyes  of  his  wife 
were  fixed  upon  him,  while,  more  than  once,  she 
questioned  him  in  regard  to -his  health.  His  mirror 
revealed  to  him  the  haggard  appearance  of  his  face, 
and  in  order  to  prevent  this  becoming  too  apparent 


THE  ARM  OF  THE  LAW         287 

he  was  obliged  to  manoeuvre  his  position  so  that, 
when  Monime  was  facing  him,  his  back  should  be 
to  the  light. 

At  length  the  dreaded  hour  arrived.  Upon  the 
glaring  face  of  the  waters  the  little  puffing  steam- 
tug,  which  had  been  ordered  by  them  for  this  date, 
came  into  sight,  bearing  down  upon  them  as  they 
sat  at  breakfast  on  deck;  and  soon  it  was  heading 
northwards  again,  towing  their  dahabiyeh  in  its  wake 
towards  the  First  Cataract  which  marks  the  frontier 
of  Eg^'pt  proper.  For  the  greater  part  of  the  two 
days'  journey  Jim  sat  listlessly  watching  the  banks 
of  the  river  as  they  glided  by;  but  when  at  last 
Shallal,  their  destination,  was  reached  he  pulled  him- 
self together  to  meet  the  last  crisis,  and,  by  the  exer- 
tion of  the  power  of  his  will,  managed  to  appear  as 
a  normal  being. 

They  made  no  halt  upon  their  way;  but,  after 
sleeping  for  the  last  time  upon  their  dahabiyeh, 
moored  near  the  railway  station,  they  transferred 
themselves  and  their  baggage  to  the  morning  train, 
and  arrived  at  Luxor  as  the  sun  went  down. 

When  they  entered  the  large  hotel  where  they 
were  to  spend  the  night  Jim  hid  his  face  as  best 
he  could  from  the  little  groups  of  tourists  gathered 
about  the  hall,  and,  telling  Monime  that  his  head 
ached,  hastened  up  the  stairs  to  the  room  which  had 
been  assigned  to  them. 

But  as  he  was  about  to  enter,  his  destiny  de- 
scended upon  him.  A  door  further  along  the  passage 
opened,  and  a  moment  later,  to  his  horror,  the  fat, 
well-remembered  figure  of  Mrs.  Darling  faced  him 
in  the  bright  illumination  of  the  electric  light.     I  Ic 


288  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

saw  her  start,  he  saw  her  eyes  open  wide  in  surprise, 
and,  with  a  gasp,  he  dashed  forward  into  his  room, 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

Monime  had  preceded  him,  and  her  back  was 
turned  as  he  staggered  forward  and  fell  into  an 
armchair,  his  face  as  white  as  the  whitewashed  walls. 
She  was  busying  herself  with  the  baggage,  and  did 
not  look  in  his  direction  for  some  moments.  When 
at  length  she  glanced  at  him  he  had  nearly  recovered 
from  the  first  force  of  the  shock,  and  she  saw  only 
a  tired  man  mopping  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. 


Chapter  XXI:     THE  LAST  KICK 

WHEN  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner,  Jim 
protested  to  Monime  that  he  was  ill  and 
did  not  wish  to  change  his  clothes  and 
come  down.  For  a  while  he  had  hoped,  in  his  mad- 
ness, that  when  Mrs.  Darling  saw  him  again  he 
would  be  able  to  look  straight  at  her  and  deny  that 
he  was  her  son-in-law.  "I  evidently  have  a  double," 
he  would  say.  "My  name  is  Easton,  madam;  the 
proprietor  of  the  hotel  will  tell  you  that  he  has 
known  me  as  such  for  the  last  five  years."  A  fact, 
indeed,  which  was  beyond  dispute,  for  he  had  stayed 
here  before  he  went  to  the  gold  mines. 

But  now  that  the  time  had  come  he  realized  that 
this  was  fantastic,  and  his  one  idea  was  to  get  away, 
so  that  he  might  make  an  end  of  himself  in  decent 
privacy.  He  was  not  a  coward:  he  was  not  afraid 
of  death  or  physical  suffering.  But  with  all  his  soul 
he  dreaded  captivity  or  enforcement  of  any  kind. 
The  possibility  of  being  chased  into  a  corner,  of 
being  handcuffed  and  put  behind  bolts  and  bars,  of 
being  compelled  and  constrained,  and  finally  led, 
pinioned,  to  the  gallows,  filled  him  with  horrible 
terror. 

One  of  the  most  common  forms  in  which  a  break- 
down of  the  nervous  system  shows  itself  is  that 
known  as  claustrophobia,  a  fear  of  being  shut  up  or 
surrounded    and    fettered.      It   is   a    primitive   and 

primeval  dread  to  which  the  disordered  conscious- 

289 


290  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

ness  leaps  back;  it  is  a  survival  of  the  days,  sons 
ago,  when  man  was  both  hunter  and  prey  of  man; 
it  is,  in  essence,  the  fear  of  the  trap. 

Monime,  from  whom  his  mental  torture  could 
not  be  altogether  concealed,  looked  at  him  with 
troubled,  anxious  eyes.  "Oh,  Jim,"  she  said,  "what 
is  the  matter  with  you?  There's  something  dread- 
ful on  your  mind;  there's  something  worrying  you, 
and  you  won't  tell  me  about  it." 

"No,  there's  nothing,  I  assure  you,"  he  answered, 
in  quick  denial.  She  must  never  know,  for  knowl- 
edge of  the  whole  miserable  business  might  bring 
contempt,  and  her  love  for  him  might  be  killed.  Of 
all  his  terrors  the  terror  of  losing  her  love  was  the 
most  unbearable. 

"Come  down  to  dinner,  dear,"  she  persuaded. 
"It  will  do  you  good."  She  bent  down  and  looked 
intently  at  him  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
scraping  the  carpet  with  his  feet  and  staring  at  the 
floor,  his  eyes  wild  with  alarm.  "It  isn't  that  you 
are  afraid  of  meeting  somebody  you  don't  want  to 
see,  is  it?" 

His  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  for  a  moment  as 
he  denied  the  suggestion.  She  was  beginning  to 
guess,  she  was  beginning  to  suspect. 

"Oh,  very  well,  then,"  he  said,  unable  to  meet  her 
gaze.  "I'll  come  down.  Perhaps,  as  you  say,  it'll 
do  me  good." 

There  was  the  black  murk  of  damnation  now  in 
his  soul,  lit  only  by  the  glow  of  his  fighting  instinct. 
The  crisis  of  terror  was  passing,  and  now  he  was 
determined  not  to  be  caught.  "Go  on  down,  darling," 
he  said.     "TU  follow  you  in  a  moment." 


THE  LAST  KICK  291 

She  put  her  arms  about  him  and  kissed  him, 
smoothing  his  forehead  with  her  cool  hand.  "What- 
ever it  is  that  is  troubling  you,"  she  whispered,  "re- 
member always  that  I  love  you,  and  shall  go  to  my 
grave  loving  you  and  you  only." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  for  a  while  his  head  lay 
upon  her  breast,  like  that  of  an  exhausted  child. 
All  the  brawn  of  life  had  been  knocked  out  of  him. 
Every  hope,  every  dream,  every  vestige  of  content 
had  gone  from  him;  and  in  these  pitiable  straits  he 
desired  only  to  shut  out  the  world,  and  to  obtain,  if 
but  for  a  moment,  a  respite  from  the  horror  of 
actuality. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he  went  to  his  portman- 
teau, and  took  from  it  his  revolver,  which  he  loaded 
and  placed  in  his  pocket.  His  intention  had  been 
to  appear  to  meet  with  an  accidental  death,  but  if 
he  had  left  it  now  till  too  late,  he  would  have  to 
blow  his  brains  out.  A  Bedouin  wanderer  such  as 
he,  he  muttered  to  himself,  must,  at  any  rate,  never 
be  taken  alive :  a  son  of  the  open  road  must  never  be 
led  captive. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  irresolute  at  the  open  door 
of  his  room,  and  the  sweat  gleamed  upon  his  fore- 
head. Then  he  braced  himself,  and  walked  down 
the  stairs.  Monime  was  not  far  ahead  ot  him,  ami, 
as  he  turned  the  corner  to  descend  the  last  flight 
which  led  down  into  the  front  hall,  she  paused  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  to  wait  for  him. 

He  saw  her  standing  there  in  the  light  of  a  large 
electric  globe,  her  black  hair  as  vivid  as  a  strong 
colour,  her  skin  white  like  marble,  her  eyes  occult 
in  their  serenity,  her  lips  smiling  encouragement  to 


292  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

him;  but  in  the  same  glance  he  saw  also  a  group  of 
persons  standing  before  the  cashier's  office  in  the 
otherwise  empty  hall,  and  instantly  he  knew  that 
the  crisis  of  his  life  was  upon  him. 

There,  fat  but  alert,  stood  Mrs.  Darling,  still 
wearing  day-dress  and  hat;  beside  her  was  a  quiet- 
looking  Englishman  who  was  the  British  Consul, 
and  with  whom  Jim  had  had  dealings  in  his  gold- 
mining  days;  on  her  other  hand  was  an  Egyptian 
police-officer;  and  next  to  him  was  the  proprietor 
of  the  hotel,  whose  face  was  turned  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  native  policeman  standing  at  the  main 
entrance.  It  was  evident  on  the  instant  that  as 
soon  as  Mrs.  Darling  had  caught  sight  of  him  on 
his  arrival  she  had  communicated  with  the  police, 
who,  in  their  turn,  had  fetched  the  Consul. 

As  Jim  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  Mrs. 
Darling  clutched  at  the  Consul's  arm.  "There  he 
is!"  she  exclaimed  excitedly,  pointing  an  accusing 
finger  at  him.     "That's  the  man!" 

He  saw  Monime  swing  round  and  face  them;  he 
saw  the  policeman  put  his  hand  to  his  hip-pocket, 
and  turn  to  the  Consul  for  instructions;  and,  as 
though  a  flame  had  been  set  to  straw,  his  anger 
blazed  up  into  unreasoning,  passionate  hate  of  all 
that  these  people  stood  for. 

Instantly  he  whipped  out  his  revolver  and  shouted 
to  them:  "Put  up  your  hands,  or  I  shoot!"  at  the 
same  time  running  downstairs  and  straight  at  them 
across  the  hall — a  wild,  grey-flannelled  figure,  his 
dark  hair  tumbling  over  his  pallid  face,  and  his  eyes 
burning  like   coals  of  fire.     All   the  hands   in  the 


THE  LAST  KICK  293 

group  went  up  together,  and  he  saw  Mrs.  Darling's 
face  grow  livid  with  alarm. 

Monime  ran  forward.  "Jim  I  Oh,  Jim!"  she 
cried,  trying  to  seize  his  arm. 

"I'm  innocent !"  he  gasped.  "But  I  won't  be  taken 
alive  by  a  damned  set  of  bungling  parasites." 

Still  covering  them  with  his  revolver  he  backed 
towards  the  garden  entrance,  and  the  next  moment 
was  out  in  the  chill  night  air  and  running  like  a 
madman  down  the  path  between  the  palms  and 
shrubs.  The  darkness  was  intense,  and  more  than 
once  he  fell  into  the  flower-beds,  kicking  the  soft 
earth  in  all  directions.  He  heard  shouts  and  cries 
behind,  but  the  thunder  of  his  own  brain  rendered 
these  meaningless  as  he  dashed  onwards  under  the 
stars. 

Soon  he  came  to  the  back  wall  of  the  garden,  and 
this  he  scaled  like  a  cat,  dropping  into  the  narrow 
lane  on  the  other  side  and  continuing  his  flight  be- 
tween the  walls  of  the  silent  native  huts  and  en- 
closures. At  length  he  emerged,  breathless,  into  the 
open  space  not  far  from  the  railway-station,  where, 
under  a  flickering  street-lamp,  a  two-horsed  carriage 
was  standing  awaiting  hire. 

He  hailed  the  red-fezzed  driver  with  as  much 
composure  as  he  could  commantl,  and  told  him  to 
drive  "like  the  wind"  to  the  temple  of  Karnak.  This, 
at  any  rate,  would  take  him  clear  of  the  town,  and 
near  the  open  fields;  and  to  the  driver  he  would  seem 
to  be  but  a  somewhat  impatient  Cook's  tourist, 
anxious  to  see  the  ruins  by  night.  Perhaps  there  was 
no  need  to  kill  himself:  he  might  go  into  hiding  and 
ultimately  fly  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth. 


294  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

As  the  carriage  lurched  and  swayed  along  the 
embanked  road,  he  turned  in  his  seat  to  watch  for 
his  pursuers;  but  there  was  no  sign  of  them.  Yet 
this  fact  now  brought  no  comfort  to  him.  With 
returning  sanity  he  realized  clearly  enough  that 
escape  was  impossible.  Were  he  to  hide  in  the 
desert,  the  Ababdeh  trackers,  always  employed  by 
the  police  in  these  districts,  would  soon  hunt  him 
down.  Were  he  to  take  refuge  amongst  the  natives, 
his  hiding-place  would  be  revealed  in  a  few  hours 
in  response  to  the  official  offer  of  a  reward.  And, 
anyway,  to  abandon  Monime,  and  to  have  no  likely 
means  of  communicating  with  her,  would  make  the 
smart  of  life  unbearable. 

There  was  no  way  out,  and  his  present  flight  re- 
solved itself  into  a  wild  attempt  to  obtain  breathing 
space  in  which  to  prepare  himself  for  the  end,  and, 
if  possible,  to  see  Monime  once  again  to  bid  her 
farewell.  The  jury  at  home  would  be  bound  to  find 
him  guilty:  the  evidence  was  too  damning.  Some 
tramp  had  murdered  Dolly,  and  was  now  lost  for 
ever;  or  else,  and  more  probably,  Merrivall's  house- 
keeper had  actually  done  it,  but  was  now  unalterably 
acquitted.  It  was  certain  that  he  would  be  hanged 
in  the  end,  and  it  would  therefore  be  far  better  to 
finish  it  this  very  night. 

In  these  moments  he  drank  the  cup  of  bitterness 
to  the  dregs;  and  the  comparative  calmness  which 
now  succeeded  his  frenzy  was  the  calmness  of  utter 
despair.  Thus,  when  the  driver  pulled  up  his  horses 
in  the  darkness  before  the  towering  pylons  of  the 
main  gateway  of  the  temple  of  Karnak,  Jim  paid 
him  off  and  approached  the  ancient  courts  of  Ammon, 


THE  LAST  KICK  295 

determined  only  to  keep  his  pursuers  at  bay  until 
he  could  make  his  confession  to  Alonime  and  die  in 
the  peace  of  her  forgiveness. 

The  watchman  at  the  gateway,  being  used  to  the 
eccentric  ways  of  the  foreigner,  admitted  him  with- 
out comment,  and  left  him  to  wander  alone  amongst 
the  vast  black  ruins,  which  were  massed  around  him 
in  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  distant  yelping  of 
the  jackals  and  the  nearer  hooting  of  the  owls. 
Through  the  roofless  Hypostyle  Hall  he  went,  a 
desolate  little  figure,  dwarfed  into  insignificance  by 
the  stupendous  pillars  which  mounted  up  about  him 
into  the  stars;  and  here,  presently,  he  stood  for  a 
while  with  arms  outstretched  and  face  upturned,  in 
an  agony  of  supplication. 

"O  Almighty  You,"  he  prayed,  "Who,  under  this 
name  or  under  that,  have  ever  been  the  God  of  the 
wretched,  and  the  Father  of  the  broken-hearted, 
look  down  upon  this  miserable  little  grub  whom  You 
have  created,  and  whose  brain  You  had  filled  with 
all  those  splendid  dreams  which  now  You  have 
shattered  and  swept  aside.  Before  I  come  to  You, 
grant  me  this  last  request:  give  me  a  little  time  with 
the  woman  I  love,  so  that  I  may  make  my  peace 
with  her  and  hear  her  words  of  forgiveness." 

He  walked  onwards,  past  the  huge  obelisk  of 
Hatshepsut,  and  in  amongst  the  mass  of  fallen 
blocks  of  stone  which  lie  heaped  belorc  the  Sanc- 
tuary; but  now  frenzy  seized  him  again,  and,  furi- 
ously resolving  to  meet  his  fate,  he  swung  round 
and  retraced  his  steps  back  to  the  first  court,  breath- 
ing imprecations  as  he  went.  Somehow,  by  some 
means,   he  must  sec   Monirnc  before   the  final   pro- 


296  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

duction  of  the  handcuffs  gave  him  the  signal  for  his 
suicide,  which  it  was  now  too  late  to  disguise  as  an 
accident. 

"Blast  them!"  he  muttered.  "Blast  them!  Blast 
them!  I'll  show  them  that  they  can't  go  chasing 
innocent  men  across  the  world.  I'll  shoot  the  lot  of 
them,  and  then  I'll  shoot  myself."  He  stumbled 
over  a  fallen  column.  "Damnation!"  he  cried. 
"Who  the  devil  left  that  thing  lying  about? — the 
silly  idiots!" 

Suddenly  voices  at  the  gateway  came  to  his  ears, 
and,  with  hammering  heart,  he  realized  that  he  had 
been  tracked  and  that  his  hour  was  come.  There- 
upon he  ran  headlong  through  the  dark  forecourt  of 
the  small  temple  of  Rameses  the  Third  which  stands 
at  the  south  side  of  the  main  courtyard,  and  con- 
cealed himself,  panting,  in  the  sanctuary  at  its  far 
end,  a  place  to  which  there  was  but  the  one  entrance. 

Here  he  stood  in  the  darkness,  fingering  his  re- 
volver, while  the  squeaking  bats  darted  In  and  out 
of  the  doorway  like  little  flying  goblins.  Presently 
he  could  see  figures  lit  by  lanterns  coming  towards 
him,  and  could  plainly  hear  their  voices. 

"Here  I  am,  you  fools!"  he  called  out  loudly  and 
defiantly;  and  the  searchers  came  to  an  immediate 
halt,  holding  up  their  lanterns  and  peering  through 
the  darkness.  "I  have  my  revolver  covering  you," 
he  shouted,  "so  don't  come  close,  unless  you  want 
to  be  killed.  Do  any  of  you  know  where  my  wife 
is?" 

"I'm  here,  Jim,"  came  her  quiet  voice  in  the 
darkness.     "Let  me  come  to  you." 

"It's  no  good,"  said  the  Consul.     "You'd  better 


THE  LAST  KICK  297 

surrender  at  once.  You  can't  escape.  Will  you  let 
me  come  and  speak  to  you?" 

"No,"  Jim  answered.  "I'll  shoot  anybody  who 
tries  to  get  in  here,  except  my  wife.  Let  me  have 
a  talk  to  her  privately,  and  then  you  can  come  and 
take  me  and  I  won't  resist."  He  might  have  added 
that  by  then  he  would  be  beyond  resistance. 

The  night  air  was  chilly,  and  the  Consul  did  not 
relish  the  thought  of  waiting  about  while  the  crim- 
inal exchanged  confidences  with  his  wife.  He  there- 
fore sharply  ordered  him  to  submit,  and  took  two 
or  three  paces  forward  to  emphasize  his  words.  He 
came  to  a  sudden  standstill,  however,  when  Jim's 
voice  from  the  sanctuary  told  him  in  unmistakable 
tones  that  one  further  step  would  mean  instant 
death. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  replied,  with  irritation.  "I'll 
give  you  a  quarter  of  an  hour."  He  pulled  his  pipe 
and  pouch  from  his  pocket,  and  prepared  to  smoke. 
He  prided  himself  on  his  heartlessness.  He  had 
once  been  a  Custom  House  official. 

"You'll  give  me  as  long  as  I  choose  to  take,"  said 
Jim,  again  flaring  up,  "unless  you  prefer  bloodshed. 
Come,  Monime,  I  have  a  lot  to  say  to  you." 

She  turned  to  her  companions.  "Have  I  your 
word  of  honour  that  you  will  leave  him  unmolested 
while  we  talk?" 

"All  right,"  the  Consul  replied,  setting  his  lan- 
tern down  on  the  ground,  and  casually  lighting  his 
pipe.  His  shadow  was  thrown  across  the  forecourt 
and  up  the  side  wall  like  some  monstrous  and  menac- 
ing apparition. 

Thereat  Monime  ran  forward  into  the  sanctuary, 


298  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

and  a  moment  later  her  arms  were  about  her  hus- 
band, and  her  lips  were  whispering  words  of  en- 
couragement and  love. 

"Oh,  Jim,  Jim!"  she  murmured  at  last.  "Tell  me 
what  it's  all  about.  They  say  you  were  married  and 
that  you  killed  your  wife.  Tell  me  the  truth,  I 
beg  you." 

"That  is  why  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,"  he  panted, 
putting  his  hand  upon  her  throat  as  though  he  would 
throttle  her,  "You  must  know  the  truth.  Ever  since 
I  met  you  again  in  Cyprus,  I've  been  aching  to  tell 
you  all  about  it;  but  I  was  a  coward.  I  so  dreaded 
the  possibility  of  losing  you."  He  threw  out  his 
arms  and  then  clapped  his  hands  to  his  head. 

She  seated  herself  on  a  fallen  block  of  stone,  and 
he  slid  to  the  ground  at  her  feet.  She  was  wearing 
an  evening  cloak,  heavy  with  fur,  and  against  this 
his  face  rested,  while  her  mothering  arms  encircled 
him,  and  her  hands  were  clasped  upon  his.  The 
distant  flicker  of  the  lanterns  made  it  possible  for 
him  dimly  to  discern  the  outline  of  her  pale  face; 
and  in  this  uncertain  light  she  seemed  to  become  a 
celestial  figure  gazing  down  at  him  with  such  infinite 
tenderness  that  the  ferment  of  his  brain  abated. 

At  first  in  halting  phrases,  but  presently  with 
increasing  fluency,  he  told  her  of  his  inheritance  of 
Eversfield  Manor,  of  his  marriage  to  Dolly,  and  of 
the  three  dreary  years  which  followed.  Then  briefly 
he  described  his  escape,  his  supposed  death,  and  his 
wanderings  which  brought  him  to  Cyprus. 

"When  I  went  back  to  England,"  he  said,  "it  was 
with  the  idea  of  obtaining  a  divorce,  so  that  you  and 
I  might  be  married.     I  had  come  to  love  you  with 


THE  LAST  KICK  299 

every  fibre  of  my  being,  and  life  without  you  seemed 
unthinkable." 

He  told  her  of  Smiley-face,  of  his  meeting  with 
Dolly  in  the  woods,  and  how  next  day  he  had  read 
of  her  murder.  "I  swear  to  you,  as  God  sees  me," 
he  declared,  "that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  her 
death.  But  who  is  going  to  believe  me?  I  was  the 
last  person  to  be  with  her:  my  supposed  motive  is 
clear !" 

He  went  on  to  relate  how  he  had  fled  back  to 
Egypt,  and  how,  finding  that  the  crime  was  placed 
at  the  door  of  another,  he  had  felt  himself  free 
to  ask  her  to  marry  him.  Then  had  come  the 
devastating  news  that  he  was  wanted  by  the  police, 
and  his  worst  fears  had  been  substantiated  when 
he  had  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Darling  on  his  arrival 
at  the  hotel. 

"The  rest  you  know,"  he  said.  "I  ran  away  just 
now  in  a  frenzy  of  fear  and  rage;  but  that  has  left 
me  and  I  am  prepared.  Feel  my  hand:  it  doesn't 
shake,  you  see.  I  am  quite  cool,  now.  They  shall 
never  take  me  to  the  scaffold,  Monime.  They  shall 
never  make  our  story  a  public  scandal.  In  a  few 
minutes  I  am  going  to  shoot  myself.   .   .   ." 

She  uttered  a  low  cry  of  anguish.  "Jim,  Jim! 
What  are  you  saying?  We'll  fight  the  case.  We'll 
get  the  best  lawyers  in  England  to  defend  you. 
They'll  have  to  realize  that  you  arc  innocent." 

"Do  you  believe  I  am  innocent?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  cried.  "I  believe  every  word  you 
have  told  me.  My  intuition  is  never  wrong:  and  I 
know  what  you  have  told  me  is  the  truth." 

The  relief  he  felt  at  her  belief  in  him  was  immc- 


300  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

diate,  and  yet  he  was  not  able  to  grasp  at  once  Its 
full  significance. 

"The  jury  won't  believe  me,"  he  said.  "I  meant 
to  die  by  what  would  appear  an  accident;  but  things 
reached  the  crisis  too  quickly.  I  lost  my  head.  If 
I  don't  end  things  here  and  now,  our  son  will  be 
branded  as  the  son  of  a  man  who  was  hanged.  Once 
I'm  arrested  I  shall  be  watched  night  and  day:  there 
will  not  be  another  chance  to  die  honourably." 

"You  mustn't  speak  of  dying,  my  beloved,"  she 
murmured.  "If  you  were  to  go,  do  you  think  I  could 
live  without  you?  I  have  got  to  bring  up  our  son 
and  watch  over  him  until  he  can  fend  for  himself. 
Do  you  think  I  shall  be  able  to  live  long  enough  to 
do  so  if  you  have  left  me?  If  you  die,  Jim,  my  life 
will  be  so  smashed  that  even  the  power  of  mother- 
hood will  fail  to  keep  the  breath  in  my  body.  If  we 
had  no  child  it  might  be  different;  we  would  go  to- 
gether now,  into  the  valley  of  the  shadows,  and  side 
by  side  we  would  find  our  way  to  the  City  of  God, 
if  at  all  it  may  be  found.  But  as  it  is,  I  can't  come 
with  you;  and  you  can't  have  the  heart  to  leave  me 
behind  while  there's  still  a  chance  that  you  need  not 
have  gone." 

"Monime,"  he  answered,  "listen  to  me.  There 
is  no  hope.  You  arc  asking  me  to  submit  to  im- 
prisonment, a  thing  unthinkable  to  a  wanderer  like 
myself.  You  are  asking  me  to  submit  to  a  trial  in 
which  your  name  will  be  dragged  through  the  dirt 
as  well  as  mine.  You  will  be  called  the  'woman  in 
the  case';  my  passion  for  you  will  be  recorded  as 
my  motive.  The  story  of  our  love  will  be  travestied 
and  brought  up  against  you  and  our  son  all  your 


THE  LAST  KICK  301 

lives.  Whereas,  if  I  end  it  now,  most  of  the  tale 
will  never  be  told  in  open  court,  and  the  whole  thing 
will  soon  be  forgotten." 

She  laughed.  "Do  you  think  I  weigh  gossip 
against  the  chance,  however  remote,  of  the  trial 
going  in  your  favour?  Do  you  think  I  care  what 
they  say  against  me  in  the  court  if  there  is  any  hope 
of  your  acquittal?  My  darling,  I  shall  fight  for 
your  life  and  your  good  name,  which  is  mine  and 
lan's,  too,  to  my  last  ounce  of  strength  and  my  last 
penny;  and  in  the  end  there  will  be  victory,  because 
you  are  innocent,  and  innocence  shows  its  face  as 
surely  as  guilt." 

"You  really  do  believe  what  I  say — that  I  had 
absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  her  death?"  he  asked, 
still  hardly  daring  to  credit  her  trust.  His  experi- 
ences with  Dolly  had  left  him  with  so  profound  a 
scepticism  in  regard  to  female  mentality  that  even 
his  adoration  of  Monime  was  not  wholly  proof 
against  it. 

She  looked  down  at  him,  and  he  seemed  to  detect 
an  expression  upon  her  face  which  was  almost  defi- 
ant. "My  dear,"  she  said,  "as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, even  if  you  were  guilty  it  would  make  no 
difference." 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously,  for  man  does  not 
know  woman,  nor  can  he  penetrate  to  the  source 
of  her  deepest  convictions.  It  was  not  Monime, 
it  was  no  individual,  who  had  spoken:  it  was  eternal 
woman. 

"Nothing  can  alter  love,"  she  explained.  "Can't 
a  man  understand  that?" 


302  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

"No,"  he  answered,  "only  woman  and  God  love 
in  that  way." 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  realize  to  the  full  the 
glory  of  her  sympathy  and  understanding.  It  was 
as  though  their  love  in  this  moment  of  bitter  trial 
had  passed  the  greatest  of  all  tests,  and  stood  now 
triumphant,  the  conqueror  of  life  and  death. 

All  the  years  of  misery  were  blotted  out  In  the 
wonder  of  this  revelation  of  womanhood,  and  on 
the  instant  his  desire  for  life  in  unity  with  her  came 
surging  back  into  his  heart. 

"Monime,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  biggest  moment 
of  all.  Whatever  I  may  suffer  will  be  worth  while, 
because  it  will  have  brought  me  the  knowledge  that 
our  love  transcends  the  ways  of  man.  By  God  ! — I'll 
stand  my  trial;  Til  make  a  fight  for  my  life,  even 
though  the  chances  of  success  are  small.  I  didn't 
know  that  such  love  existed." 

She  laughed.  "You  didn't  know,"  she  whispered, 
"because,  as  I  once  told  you,  men  don't  bother  to 
study  women." 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  the  dim  light,  and  of  a 
sudden  it  seemed  to  his  overwrought  fancy  that  the 
sanctuary  was  filled  with  her  presence,  as  though 
she  were  one  with  the  women  of  all  the  ages,  press- 
ing forward  from  every  side  to  tend  him,  to  bind 
up  his  wounds,  to  stand  by  him  in  his  adversity,  to 
forgive  his  sins.  He  saw  her  revealed  to  him  as 
the  eternal  woman,  the  everlasting  companion,  wife 
and  mother,  for  ever  watching  over  his  welfare,  for 
ever  acting  upon  a  code  of  principles  other  than  that 
of  man,  for  ever  drawing  knowledge  from  sources 
unattainable  to  man.     Of  no  account  were  the  little 


THE  LAST  KICK  303 

shams  of  the  sex,  such  as  Dolly;  they  were  swamped 
amidst  the  hosts  of  the  good  and  the  true.  It  had 
been  his  misfortune  to  encounter  one  of  the  former; 
but  his  disillusionment  was  forgotten  in  the  all-per- 
vading sympathy  which  now  enfolded  him  like  the 
tender  wings  of  Hathor. 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  stood  before  her, 
gazing  into  her  shadowy  face.  "Come,"  he  said, 
"the  night  air  is  too  chilly  for  you.  You  must  go 
back  to  the  hotel,  and  I  must  go  with  these  con- 
founded little  tin  soldiers."  His  voice  was  cheery 
and  his  head  was  held  high  once  more. 

They  came  out  of  the  black  sanctuary  hand-in- 
hand,  and  stood  in  the  columned  portico  before  the 
entrance,  in  the  dimly  reflected  light  of  the  lanterns. 

"Well,  have  you  finished?"  the  Consul  asked, 
knocking  out  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  against  the 
uplifted  heel  of  his  boot. 

"Yes,  I  am  ready  now,"  Jim  replied  very  quietly. 

He  unloaded  his  revolver,  shaking  the  cartridges 
into  his  hand,  thereafter  holding  out  the  empty 
weapon  to  the  native  policeman,  who,  being  a  Sou- 
dani,  was  the  first  to  take  the  risk  of  approach. 

"Give  mc  the  handcuffs,"  said  the  Consul  to  the 
police  officer. 

Jim  extended  his  wrists,  and  as  he  did  so  his  face 
was  averted  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Monime. 
On  her  lips  was  the  smile  of  Hatlior  and  of  Isis — 
serene,  confident,  inscrutable,  all-wise. 


Chapter  XXII:    THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH 

JIM  spent  the  night  at  the  police-station,  where 
a  military  camp-bed  was  provided  for  him  in 
an  empty  whitewashed  room.  Late  in  the  eve- 
ning his  overcoat,  guitar-case  and  kit-bag  were 
brought  to  him  from  the  hotel,  the  latter  containing 
a  few  clothes  and  necessaries;  and,  pinned  to  his 
pyjamas,  was  a  sheet  of  notepaper  upon  which,  in 
Monime's  handwriting,  were  the  pencilled  words: 
"Keep  up  your  spirits.  I  shall  come  to  England  with 
you,  my  beloved." 

A  surprising  languor  had  descended  upon  him 
after  the  excitements  of  the  evening,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  he  fell  into  a  profound  sleep,  from 
which  he  was  aroused  before  daybreak  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  native  policeman,  who  deposited  a  candle 
upon  the  cement  floor  and  informed  him  that  he  was 
to  be  taken  down  to  Cairo  by  the  day  train  due  to 
depart  at  dawn.  A  cup  of  native  coffee  was  presently 
brought  in,  together  with  a  pile  of  stale  sandwiches, 
which,  he  was  told,  had  been  sent  from  the  hotel  on 
the  previous  evening;  but,  having  no  appetite,  he 
placed  these  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  dreary  and  bitterly  cold  half 
hour,  the  Consul  entered  the  cell,  bluntly  bidding 
him  good  morning.  "I  have  orders,"  he  said,  "to 
bring  you  down  to  Cairo  myself." 

"That  zvill  be  jolly,"  Jim  answered  gloomily. 

The  Consul  adjusted  his  eyeglasses  and  stared  at 

304 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH      305 

him  coldly.  "I  must  warn  you,"  he  mumbled,  "that 
anything  you  say  may  be  taken  down  in  evidence 
against  you." 

"That'll  make  the  journey  jollier  still,"  said  Jim. 
Now  that  Monimc  knew  all,  and  had  declared  that 
she  loved  and  trusted  him,  he  was  in  much  happier 
mood,  and  could  face  the  shadow  of  death  with  suf- 
ficient equanimity  to  permit  him  to  jest  with  his 
captors.  But  exasperation  returned  to  his  mind 
when  in  answer  to  his  inquiry  he  was  told  that  his 
wife  had  not  been  informed  of  his  immediate  de- 
parture, nor  had  the  authorities  any  concern  with 
her  or  her  movements. 

"  'The  sin  ye  do  by  two  and  two  ye  must  pay  for 
one  by  one,'  "  quoted  the  Consul,  to  whom  Kipling 
was  as  the  Bible. 

"Oh,  shut  up  !"  said  Jim.  "Get  out  your  notebook 
and  write  down  that  I  declare  I'm  innocent  and  that 
the  police  are  bungling  fools." 

On  the  journey  down  to  Cairo  he  and  the  Consul 
occupied  a  compartment  which  had  been  reserved  for 
them.  A  policeman  was  stationed  in  the  corridor, 
and  the  windows  on  the  opposite  side  were  screened 
by  the  wooden  shutters  which  serve  as  blinds  in 
Egyptian  railway  trains.  There  was  nothing  to  do 
except  smoke  the  cigarettes  he  hail  bccH  permitted 
to  buy  at  the  station,  or  do/.e  in  his  corner,  while 
his  companion  complacently  read  a  novel  and  smoked 
his  pipe  on  the  opposite  scat,  occasionally  glancing  at 
him  over  the  top  of  his  eyeglasses. 

Fourteen  hours  of  this  sort  of  thing  was  enough 
to  reduce  him  to  a  condition  of  complete  despera- 
tion, and  when  at  last  the  train  jolted  over  the  points 


3o6  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

into  the  terminus  at  Cairo,  he  had  almost  made  up 
his  mind  to  bolt  and  to  attempt  to  return  to  England 
on  his  own  account.  He  was  well  guarded,  however, 
and  soon  he  was  deposited  for  the  night  at  the 
Consulate.  Next  day  he  was  taken,  handcuffed,  to 
the  station,  where  he  was  pushed  into  the  train  for 
Port  Said  under  the  eyes  of  a  gaping  crowd.  He 
was  now  in  the  charge  of  a  Scotch  ex-sergeant  serving 
in  the  Egyptian  Police,  who  had  been  lent  for  the 
purpose;  and  on  the  following  morning  this  man, 
assisted  by  native  policemen,  conveyed  him  to  the 
liner  which  was  to  carry  him  to  England. 

Here  an  interior  cabin  had  been  assigned  to  him, 
a  small  glass  panel  in  the  door  having  been  removed 
so  that  he  might  be  at  all  times  under  observation; 
and  here  for  the  twelve  weary  days  of  the  journey 
he  was  confined,  with  nothing  to  relieve  the  tedium 
except  an  occasional  visit  from  the  kindly  captain,  a 
nightly  breath  of  fresh  air  on  the  deserted  deck, 
the  reading  of  the  novels  which  were  considerately 
sent  down  to  him  from  the  ship's  library,  and  the 
playing  of  his  guitar,  which  by  favour  of  the  Calrene 
authorities  he  had  been  allowed  to  retain. 

His  depression  was  deepened  by  his  inability  to 
obtain  any  news  of  Monlme,  but  he  presumed  that 
she  would  know  his  whereabouts,  and  she  had  said 
that  she  would  follow  him  to  England.  At  any  rate 
there  would  be  no  lack  of  money  for  her  journey  and 
the  ultimate  expenses  of  the  trial;  for  he  was  now, 
of  course,  once  more  owner  of  the  Eversfield  prop- 
erty, and  Tundering-West  was  again  his  name. 

During  these  days  his  mind  dwelt  for  hours  to- 
gether upon  the  problems  of  life  as  they  presented 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH        307 

themselves  to  a  man  of  his  Bedouin  temperament, 
and  clearly  he  began  to  see  that  it  was  not  enough 
merely  to  live  and  let  live.  As  he  lay  sprawling 
upon  his  berth,  staring  at  the  white-painted  walls 
and  at  the  locked  door  of  the  cabin,  or  as  he  paced 
the  narrow  area  of  flooring  or  sat  listening  to  the 
rhythmic  throbbing  of  the  engines,  it  became  appar- 
ent to  him  that  the  recognition  of  some  sort  of 
obligation  to  society  at  large  was  essential,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  his  son. 

He  had  always  been  an  outlaw,  hating  organized 
society,  and  naming  it,  like  the  wise  Giacomo 
Leopardi,  "that  extollcr  and  enjoiner  of  all  false 
virtues;  that  detractor  and  persecutor  of  all  true 
ones;  that  opponent  of  all  essential  greatness  which 
can  become  a  man,  and  derider  of  every  lofty  senti- 
ment unless  it  be  spurious;  that  slave  of  the  strong 
and  tyrant  of  the  weak." 

Yet  he  saw  now  that  to  some  extent  it  was  neces- 
sary to  conform  to  its  ways.  The  art  of  life,  in  fact, 
was  to  conform  without  being  consumed,  to  submit 
without  being  submerged.  But  in  his  case  he  had, 
by  his  inconsidcration,  managed  to  put  people's 
backs  up  on  all  sides,  and  now,  when  he  needed  their 
friendship,  for  his  wife  and  his  child  if  not  for  him- 
self, he  was  friendless. 

He  had  contributed  nothing,  he  felt,  to  his  fellow 
men.  He  had  carried  his  dreams  locked  in  his 
head,  and  only  occasionally  had  he  troubled  to 
write  them  down  in  the  form  of  verse.  He  had 
squandered  the  gifts  with  wliich  he  was  endoweil;  he 
had  wasted  the  years;  and  now,  in  his  ilcspcrate 
plight,  there  was  no  one  to  come  forward  to  say  a 


3o8  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

word  in  his  defence.  Public  opinion  would  declare 
him  guilty,  and  he  would  have  to  fight  for  his  life 
not  only  against  an  absence  of  sympathy,  but  against 
a  bias  in  his  disfavour. 

Monimc,  too,  had  gone  her  own  way,  ignoring 
the  conventions,  following  with  him  the  law  of 
nature  and  not  respecting  that  law  in  the  form  into 
which  man  has  had  to  twist  and  limit  it  to  meet  the 
conditions  of  civilized  society.  And  now  they  and 
their  son  would  be  the  sufferers.  They  were  a  pair 
of  outcasts;  and  yet  she,  as  individually  he  under- 
stood her,  was  a  personification  of  the  glory  of 
womanhood.  They  were  vagrants;  their  love,  at  the 
outset,  had  been  Bedouin  love;  and  how  they  must 
pay  the  price. 

The  troubles  by  which  he  was  surrounded  had 
had  a  salutary  effect  upon  his  character,  and  had 
aroused  him  to  his  shortcomings.  Before  he  had 
Inherited  the  family  property  his  life  had  been  of 
an  indefinite  and  dreamy  character;  at  Eversfield 
he  had  been  suppressed  and  rendered  ineffectual; 
but  since  he  had  come  to  love  Monime  he  had 
emerged  from  this  stagnation,  and  in  the  strongly 
contrasted  turmoil  of  his  subsequent  life  he  had, 
as  the  saying  is,  found  himself. 

As  the  vessel  passed  up  the  Thames  and  ap- 
proached its  moorings  at  Tilbury,  he  had  the  feeling 
that,  grasped  in  the  relentless  tentacles,  he  was  being 
drawn  in  towards  the  cold,  fat  body  of  the  octopus 
against  which  he  had  always  fought.  Perhaps  he 
would  be  devoured,  perhaps  he  would  be  vomited 
forth  unharmed;  but,  whatever  the  issue,  he  had 
no  power  to  resist,  and  must  assuredly  be  sucked 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH        309 

into  that  horrible  mouth.  There  had  been  times 
during  the  voyage  when  he  lay  in  his  berth,  sick  with 
the  dread  of  it;  but  now  that  his  destination  was 
nearly  reached  he  felt  an  eager  desire  to  be  up  and 
fighting  for  his  life  and  liberty. 

There  had  been  times,  too,  when  he  had  turned 
with  aching  heart  to  his  guitar,  and  had  sat  for 
hours  on  the  edge  of  his  berth,  playing  and  singing 
melancholy  ditties  and  songs  of  love.  He  was  ever 
unaware  of  the  beauty  of  his  voice,  and  he  would 
have  been  surprised  had  he  been  able  to  see  the 
wrapt  faces  of  the  stewards  and  others  who  used  to 
gather  at  the  door  to  listen,  and  who  would  some- 
times peep  at  the  wild  figure  bending  over  the  strings. 

At  Tilbury  he  had  to  face  an  army  of  cameramen 
who  ran  before  him  snapping  him  as  he  came  down 
the  gangway  in  charge  of  two  policemen.  A  motor 
police-van  conveyed  him  thence  to  the  prison  where 
he  was  to  await  the  formal  proceedings  in  the  magis- 
trate's court;  and  here  at  last  he  experienced  the 
full  rigour  of  the  criminal's  lot.  Until  now  he  had 
been  confined  in  rooms  not  intended  for  imprison- 
ment; but  here  he  found  himself  in  an  actual  cell, 
designed  and  built  to  cage  the  arbitrary  and  the 
recalcitrant.  The  iron  bars,  the  ingenious  mecha- 
nism of  the  lock,  and  bolt,  the  inaccessible  window, 
the  uniformed  warder  in  the  passage  outside — these 
were  all  instruments  of  the  great  octopus,  and  obedi- 
ent to  its  word :  "Thou  shalt  have  none  other  gods 
but  me." 

In  the  late  afternoon  he  lay  upon  his  bed  in  a 
comatose  state,  due  to  his  nervous  exhaustion;  but 
whenever    sleep    came    upon    liiin    his    acti\c    brain 


3IO  BKDOUIN   LOVE 

created  a  picture  of  his  coming  trial,  so  dreadful  that 
he  had  to  fight  his  way,  so  it  seemed,  back  to  con- 
sciousness to  avoid  it.  He  saw  the  crowded  court, 
and  the  hundreds  of  eyes  that  watched  him  as  he 
stood  in  the  dock,  and  it  appeared  to  him  that  the 
judge  was  none  other  than  the  fat,  leering  spectre 
which  at  Eversfield  had  come  to  represent  his  mar- 
ried life  and  its  respectable  surroundings.  But  now 
the  creature  no  longer  coaxed  and  wheedled;  it  was 
impelled  only  by  malice  and  revenge,  and  the  flabby 
hand  was  pointed  at  him  in  cold  accusation,  or  raised 
with  a  sweeping  gesture  to  indicate  the  all-embracing 
power  of  the  great  octopus. 

In  momentary  dreams  and  in  half-conscious 
thought  his  fevered  brain  gradually  formed  into 
words  this  monstrous  judge's  summary  of  his  actions, 
so  that  he  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  story  of  his 
life  as  interpreted  by  his  fellow  men.  "Vile  crea- 
ture," the  voice  droned,  "coward,  bully,  and  assassin, 
let  me  recount  to  you  the  steps  which  have  led  you 
to  the  scaffold.  As  a  young  man  you  deserted  the 
post  at  which  your  good  father  had  placed  you,  and, 
unable  to  do  an  honest  day's  work,  you  fled  over  the 
seas  and  attached  yourself  to  the  world's  riff-raff, 
thereby  breaking  the  parental  heart.  Having 
squandered  your  patrimony,  you  came  at  last  to 
some  low  haunt  in  the  city  of  Alexandria,  and  there, 
meeting  a  woman  of  loose  morals,  you  cohabited 
with  her,  but  deserted  her  when  she  was  with  child." 

"It's  a  liel"  he  heard  himself  screaming,  as  he 
struggled  to  loose  himself  from  the  grip  of  the 
attendant  policemen. 

"The    facts  speak   for  themselves,"   the   accusing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.        311 

voice  continued.  "You  deserted  her  because  you  had 
inherited  your  uncle's  money,  and  were  lured  back 
to  England  by  the  love  of  gold.  In  your  own  ances- 
tral village  you  used  your  position  to  bully  your 
tenants;  you  assaulted  one  of  your  honest  farmers, 
you  insulted  the  saintly  vicar,  and  the  local  medical 
officer;  you  incurred  the  mistrust  of  the  simple  vil- 
lagers. Your  only  friend  was  a  filthy  poacher  and 
thief.  You  pursued  the  most  comely  maiden  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  did  not  desist  until  you  had  en- 
compassed her  downfall.  But,  having  married  her, 
you  treated  her  like  a  bully,  and  at  length  you 
deserted  her,  too,  as  you  had  deserted  your  former 
mistress." 

"Lies  !     Lies  !"  he  shouted.     "I  will  not  listen  !" 

"Returning  to  your  disreputable  life  in  low  haunts, 
you  were  involved  in  a  cut-throat  affray  in  Italy; 
and,  escaping  from  this,  you  pretended  to  have 
been  murdered,  and  allowed  your  assailant  to  stand 
his  trial  on  that  charge.  Thus  you  thought  to  escape 
from  the  bonds  of  wedlock,  and  with  a  lie  upon  your 
lips  you  returned  to  the  arms  of  your  mistress,  pro- 
posing to  her  a  bigamous  marriage.  But,  fearing 
detection,  and  needing  money,  you  sneaked  home; 
lured  into  the  woods  the  sorrowing  woman  who, 
deeming  herself  a  widow,  mourned  your  memory; 
and  there  did  her  to  death." 

"I  am  innocent!"  he  gasped,  looking  about  Iiim 
in  desperation  at  the  hard  faces  which  surroumled 
him  and  hcmmeil  him  in.  "Of  her  death  at  any  rate 
I  am  innocent." 

"You  fled,  then,  back  to  your  lover,"  the  voice 
went  on,  "and  ruthlessly  involved  her  in  your  coming 


312  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

debacle.  When  the  officers  of  the  law  had  hunted 
you  down  you  threatened  them  with  death;  but  pres- 
ently, running  from  them  like  a  coward,  and  being 
too  craven  to  take  your  own  life,  you  were  ignomini- 
ously  captured,  and  brought  trembling  to  this  place 
of  justice.  Enemy  of  society,  lazy  and  useless  mem- 
ber of  the  community,  wretched  victim  of  your  own 
lusts,  have  you  anything  to  say  why  sentence  of  death 
should  not  be  passed  upon  you?" 

Wildly  he  struggled  to  free  himself,  and  so  awoke, 
bathed  in  perspiration  and  shaking  in  every  limb. 
"O  God!"  he  cried,  beating  his  fists  upon  the  bed, 
"take  away  from  me  this  vision  of  myself  as  others 
see  me.  Because  I  have  turned  in  contempt  from 
the  Great  Sham,  because  I  have  dared  to  be  inde- 
pendent, must  I  pay  the  penalty  with  my  life,  and  go 
accursed  to  my  grave?  Must  Monime,  must  Ian 
suffer  for  my  mistakes,  and  bear  the  burden  of 
my  sins?" 

For  an  hour  and  more  he  paced  his  cell  in  tor- 
ment; but  at  last  the  door  was  opened  and  a  clergy- 
man entered,  announcing  himself  as  the  prison 
chaplain,  and  politely  asking  whether  he  might  be 
of  service. 

"Yes,"  said  Jim  without  hesitation,  looking  at 
him  with  bloodshot  eyes,  "go  away  and  pray  for 
me. 

But  his  visitor  was  too  accustomed  to  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  prisoner's  heart  to  accept  this  rebuff,  and 
held  his  ground.  "I  am  one  of  those  who  believe 
in  your  innocence,"  he  said,  "and  that  being  so,  I 
should  like  to  say  that  I  am  proud  to  meet  you." 

Jim  pushed  the  hair  back  from  his  damp   fore- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH        313 

head  and  glanced  quickly  at  him.     "Is  that  a  figure 
of  speech?"  he  asked,  menacingly. 

"Why,  of  course  not:  I  mean  it,"  the  chaplain 
replied.  "The  whole  English-speaking  world  is 
under  the  deepest  debt  to  you." 

Jim  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  "I  don't 
understand,"  he  muttered. 

"Well,  you  are  the  James  Easton  who  wrote 
Songs  of  the  Highroad,  are  you  not?" 

"Oh,  that!"  Jim  smiled.  "The  book  is  out,  is 
it?  I  thought  they  were  going  to  publish  late  in 
the  spring." 

"My  dear  sir,"  the  visitor  exclaimed,  "do  you 
mean  to  say  you  haven't  seen  the  reviews?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  Jim 
answered. 

"But  every  man  of  letters  in  the  country  is  talking 
about  it.  We  have  all  hailed  you  as  the  greatest 
poet  of  modern  times.  Why,  the  one  poem,  'The 
Nile,'  is  enough  to  bring  you  immortality.  My  dear 
sir,  do  you  really  mean  that  this  is  news  to  you?" 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Jim.  "I  haven't  read  the 
papers  for  weeks."  He  sat  down  suddenly  upon  his 
bed,  his  knees  refusing  their  office. 

The  chaplain  spread  out  his  hands  in  wonder. 
"But  don't  you  know  that  your  arrest  lias  caused 
the  biggest  sensation  ever  known  in  recent  years? 
First  comes  the  book,  and  you  are  hailed  as  a  public 
benefactor,  the  friend  and  interpreter  of  struggling 
humanity,  the  genius  of  the  age,  the  'uncrowned 
laureate  of  England;  and  then  the  discovery  is  made 
that  you  are  one  with  the  James  Tunderlng-West, 
alias  James  I^aston,  wanted  on  the  charge  ol  murder. 


314  BEDOUIN    LOVE 

Why,  It  has  been  dumbfounding  to  us  all.  Nobody 
can  believe  that  you  are  guilty." 

"I'm  not,  padre,"  said  Jim  quietly.  "But  the  evi- 
dence is  pretty  damning,  you  know.  I  zcas  there  in 
the  woods  with  my  wife." 

"Well,  you  will  have  public  opinion  on  your  side," 
the  chaplain  continued.  "A  man  like  you,  who  has 
given  so  much  to  the  world,  will  certainly  receive 
the  maximum  of  consideration." 

"But  ,  .  .  but,"  Jim  stammered,  a  lump  in  his 
throat,  "I've  given  nothing.  I've  been  a  selfish 
beast,  going  my  own  way,  ignoring  my  obligation 
to  society.  Why,  all  the  way  home  in  the  steamer 
I've  been  telling  myself  that  my  life  has  been  use- 
less. And  just  now  the  judge  said  .  .  .  Oh,  padre, 
the  things  he  said !  .  .  .  No,  that  was  only  a 
dream;  but  the  fact  remains,  I've  been  useless," 

"Useless!"  his  visitor  laughed.  "Why,  man,  you 
will  be  beloved  and  thanked  for  generations  to 
come.  How  little  do  we  realize  when  we  are  being 
of  use!" 

Long  after  his  visitor  had  gone  Jim  sat  dazed  and 
overa\ved.  He  cared  nothing  for  his  actual  triumph, 
but  there  were  no  bounds  to  his  thankfulness  that 
at  last  he  might  appear  worthy  of  the  love  of 
Monime.  He  slept  little  that  night.  He  was  al- 
ternately miserable  and  exultant,  and  there  were 
moments  when  he  could  with  difficulty  refrain  from 
battering  at  the  door  with  his  fists,  in  a  frenzy  to  be 
out  and  away  over  the  hills. 

Daylight  brought  no  relief  to  the  confusion  of 
his  mind;  and  by  mid-morning,  as  he  sat  waiting  for 
something  to  happen,  hovering  between  hope  and 
dread,  his  head  seemed  nigh  to  bursting. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH        315 

But  suddenly  all  things  were  changed.  The  door 
of  his  cell  was  opened  and  a  warder  entered.  Jim 
did  not  look  up :  his  face  was  buried  in  his  hands 
in  a  vain  effort  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"There's  your  wife  to  sec  you,  sir,"  said  the 
warder,  tapping  his  shoulder.  "You  are  to  come 
with  me." 

Jim  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  blinking,  his  hair 
tossed  about  his  forehead.  Down  the  corridor  he 
was  led,  and  up  a  flight  of  stairs.  The  door  of  the 
visitor's  room  was  opened,  and  a  moment  later  the 
beloved  arms  were  about  his  neck,  and  the  warder 
had  stepped  back  into  the  passage. 

"It's  all  right,  my  darling!"  she  cried.  "We've 
found  the  murderer.  The  order  for  your  release 
will  come  through  at  once:  you'll  be  out  of  this  in 
an  hour  or  so.  Oh,  Jim,  Jim,  Jim,  my  darling,  my 
darling!" 

He  was  incredulous,  and  in  breathless  haste  she 
told  him  what  had  happened.  She  had  come  back 
to  England  by  the  quick  route,  and,  travelling  across 
country,  had  arrived  some  days  before  his  ship  had 
completed  the  long  sea  route  by  way  of  the 
Pensinsula. 

"Mrs.  Darling  came  with  mc,"  she  said.  "Oh, 
Jim,  she's  been  splendid." 

"What  d'you  mean?"  he  asked  in  astonishment. 
"She  is  my  accuser." 

"Oh,  that  was  only  natural,"  Monimc  explained. 
"That  was  a  mother's  instinctive  feeling.  Hut  we 
talked  all  through  that  terrible  night  at  Luxor,  and 
long  before  we  left  I'gypt  I  think  she  rcali/.ctl  she 
had  made  a  mistake.  You  see,  as  soon  as  the  police 
were   able   to   prove   that    Merrivall's   housekeeper 


3i6  BEDOUIN  LOVE 

was  not  guilty  she  at  once  thought  it  must  have  been 
you  after  all,  and  she  swore  she'd  hunt  you  down. 
She  came  to  Egypt  with  the  concurrence  of  the 
police,  who  had  an  unconfirmed  report  about  your 
having  been  seen  at  Abu  Simbel." 

"Never  mind  about  all  that,"  Jim  interrupted. 
"Tell  me  who  did  it.  .  .  .  Oh,  for  God's  sake  tell 
me  they've  really  got  the  man!" 

Monime  reassured  him.  "Listen,"  she  went  on. 
"As  soon  as  we  arrived  in  England  I  made  Mrs. 
Darling  take  me  down  to  Eversfield,  and  we  started 
our  own  inquiries.  You  had  spoken  of  having  sent 
your  poacher  friend  off  to  get  Mrs.  Darling's  ad- 
dress from  the  postman;  so  of  course  we  went  first 
to  the  post-office,  and  Mr.  Barnes  was  quite  emphatic 
that  Smiley-face  was  only  with  him  for  a  few  minutes 
early  in  the  afternoon." 

Jim's  face  fell.  "I  feared  as  much,"  he  groaned. 
"You're  on  the  wrong  scent.  You're  suggesting  that 
Smiley  did  it." 

"I'm  not  suggesting,"  she  answered  with  triumph. 
"He  did  do  it.     He  has  confessed." 

He  stared  at  her  in  dismay.  "Good  Lord!"  he 
exclaimed,  and,  turning  away,  stood  lost  in  thought. 
He  had  not  believed  it  possible  that  the  poacher 
was  in  any  way  connected  with  the  crime,  for  his 
errand  in  the  village  had  seemed  to  account  for  his 
time,  and  later  in  the  afternoon  he  had  returned  with 
perfect  composure. 

"Has  the  poor  chap  been  arrested?"  he  asked  at 
length. 

Monime  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said,  "he  is 
in  the  infirmary  at  Oxford.  They  hardly  expected 
him  to  live  yesterday,  after  all  the  strain  of  making 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH        317 

his  confession  to  us  and  then  to  the  police."  It 
was  his  heart,  it  seemed,  that  had  given  out,  a  fact 
at  which  Jim  was  not  surprised,  for  when  he  had 
met  him  on  that  memorable  day  it  was  evident  that 
he  was  very  ill. 

"Poor  old  Smiley!"  he  murmured.  "He  did  It 
for  my  sake." 

Monimc's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Oh,  Jim,"  she 
said.  "Fm  so  cross  with  you.  To  think  that  you 
never  let  me  know  you  were  a  great  poet.  You  said 
you  only  scribbled  doggerel.  When  I  read  this 
book  of  your  poems  I  cried  my  eyes  out,  with  pride 
and  temper  and  love  and  fear.  Didn't  you  realize 
you  were  writing  things  that  would  live?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  he  answered.  "I  thought 
you'd  think  them  awful  rot." 

The  order  from  the  Home  Secretary  for  Jim's 
release  was  not  long  delayed,  and  soon  after  mid- 
day he  was  a  free  man  once  more,  enjoying  a  bath 
and  a  change  of  clothes  at  the  hotel  where  his  wife 
was  staying.  Here,  when  his  toilet  was  complete, 
Mrs.  Darling  came  to  see  him,  and  he  was  surprised 
to  observe  the  affectionate  relationship  which  seemed 
to  exist  between  her  and  Monime. 

"Jim,  my  dear,"  she  said,  when  the  somewhat 
difficult  greetings  were  exchanged.  "I  am  a  wicked 
old  woman  to  have  brought  such  unhappiness  upon 
you;  but  you  will  know  what  I  felt  about  my  Dolly's 
cruel  end."  She  passed  her  plump  hand  over  her 
eyes.     "I  can't  yet  bear  to  think  of  it." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  answereil.  "But  you  might 
have  realized  that  I  would  not  have  done  such  a 
thing." 

"I  see  that  now,"  she  said.     "1  his  dear  girl  has 


3i8  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

explained  you  to  me,  so  that  I  see  you  as  clear  as 
crystal.  She  has  pointed  out  that  you  will  neither 
let  anybody  interfere  with  your  life  nor  will  you 
interfere  with  theirs.  You  just  live  and  let  live.  I 
hadn't  quite  understood  that,  but  I  see  it  now,  and 
your  poems,  too,  have  helped  me  to  understand. 
Isn't  it  true  that  if  you  once  remove  understanding 
from  life  you  get  every  kind  of  complication!  It  is 
our  business  as  women  to  make  a  study  of  the  work- 
ings of  men's  minds;  but  in  this  case  I  made  a  miser- 
able hash  of  it.  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!"  she  mut- 
tered, and  suddenly,  sitting  down  heavily  upon  a 
chair,  she  wept  loudly,  rocking  her  fat  little  body 
to  and  fro. 

Jim  was  not  able  to  remain  long  to  comfort  her. 
He  had  determined  to  catch  an  afternoon  express 
to  Oxford  to  try  to  see  the  dying  Smiley-face  before 
the  end;  and  he  had  arranged  to  return  by  the  late 
evening  train,  so  that  he  and  Monimc  might  go  down 
next  morning  to  join  their  little  son  on  the  south 
coast. 

He  evaded  a  mob  of  journalists  at  the  door  of  the 
hotel,  and  reached  Oxford  after  the  winter  sun  had 
set,  driving  to  the  infirmary  In  a  scurry  of  snow. 
In  an  ante-room  he  explained  his  mission  to  the 
matron,  who  seemed  much  relieved  that  he  had 
come. 

"He's  been  asking  about  you  all  day,  and  begging 
us  to  tell  him  If  you  had  been  released,"  she  said. 
"It's  almost  as  though  he  were  clinging  on  to  life 
until  he  knew  you  were  safe.  He's  a  poor,  half- 
witted creature.    It's  a  mercy  he  is  dying." 

Jim  was  taken  into  a  small  room  leading  from 
one  of  the  large  wards;  and  here,  in  the  dim  light 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH        319 

of  a  green-shaded  electric  globe,  he  saw  a  nurse 
leaning  over  the  sick  man's  bed.  He  saw  the 
poacher's  red  hair,  now  less  towsled  than  he  had 
known  it  in  the  open,  and  of  a  more  pronounced 
colour  by  reason  of  its  washing  and  combing;  he 
saw  the  drawn  features,  and  the  shut  eyes;  he  saw 
the  rough,  hairy  hands  lying  inert  upon  the  white 
quilt:  and  for  a  moment  he  thought  he  had  arrived 
too  late. 

The  matron,  however,  exchanged  a  whispered 
word  with  the  nurse;  and  presently  a  sign  was  made 
to  him  to  approach.  He  thereupon  seated  himself 
at  the  bedside,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  Smiley's  arm. 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence  in  the  room; 
but  at  length  the  little  pig-like  eyes  opened,  and 
Jim  could  see  the  sudden  expression  of  relief  and 
happiness  which  at  once  lit  up  the  whole  face. 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  the  dying  man  whis- 
pered. "I  didn't  know  they'd  taken  you.  If  Fd  ha' 
known  that,  I'd  ha'  told  them  at  once.  I  thought 
you  was  safe  in  thcrn  furrin  lands;  and  when  your 
lady  come  yesterday  and  said  they'd  cotched  you  and 
put  you  in  the  lock-up,  I  thought  I'd  go  clean  off 
it,  I  did." 

Jim  pressed  his  hand.  "Smiley,"  he  said,  "why 
did  you  do  it?" 

"Seemed  like  it  was  the  only  way,"  he  replied. 
"When  I  come  back  into  the  woods  to  wait  for  you, 
I  hcerd  you  and  her  talking,  and  I  listened;  and 
then  I  heerd  her  say  as  'ow  she'd  make  your  name 
stink  in  the  nostrils  of  every  gcnTman,  ami  I  knew 
you  couldn't  never  be  riil  o'  she.  riien  her  come 
running  past  where  I  was  a-hiding,  am!  her  tripped 
up  anil  fell.     Fair  stunned,  her  was.     I  thought  her 


320  BEDOUIN   LOVE 

was  dead,  her  lay  that  still.  So  I  reckoned  I'd  make 
sure.  I  did  it  quick,  with  a  stone.  Her  made  no 
sound." 

"But  why  did  you  do  it?"  Jim  repeated. 

Smiley-face  grinned.  "Because  you  was  my 
friend,  and  her  was  your  enemy.  Because  I  remem- 
bered your  face  that  day  when  you  was  a-weeping 
down  there  in  the  woods,  and  a-longing  to  be  free 
again." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  for  some  moments  he  did 
not  speak.  At  length,  however,  he  looked  at  Jim 
once  more,  and  his  lips  moved.  "Parson  do  say 
God  be  werry  merciful,"  he  whispered.  "Maybe 
He'll  understand  why  I  done  it.  But  I  don't  care  if 
He  send  I  into  hell  fire,  now  I  know  you're  happy. 
Tell  me,  sir,  what  be  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  going  away,  Smiley,"  replied  Jim.  "I've 
got  a  lot  of  work  to  do.  We  are  going  to  find  a 
little  house  overlooking  the  Mediterranean,  and  in 
the  years  to  come,  when  all  this  is  forgotten,  we  shall 
come  back  here,  perhaps,  and  get  the  place  ready  for 
my  son.  You'd  like  my  son.  Smiley:  he's  a  fine  little 
lad." 

The  poacher  nodded.  "When  you  come  back 
here,"  he  said,  "go  down  into  the  woods  and  whistle 
to  me  the  same  as  you  used  to  do.  I  shall  hear.  I 
shall  say:  'There's  my  dear  a-calling  of  me.  Friends 
sticks  to  friends  through  thick  and  thin.'  And  maybe 
they'll  let  me  answer  you.   .   .   ." 

His  voice  trailed  off,  but  his  lips  si^iUd.  "Oh, 
them  little  rabbits,"  he  chuckled.  ^    ^   ■^^, 

THE    END     '*     * 


rHK  I.IBRAR^ 
I  M\  KRSITV  Oh  (   VI  IhORMA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  1)1  I    ON    I  HI    I  AS  I   DATK 
SIAMPH)  BH  ()\N. 


lOOM  n  '86ScrK>MI2 


3        »L^U« 


k 


•  wfwottvn  to  •. 


>  ot  CAtiroiNU  • 


X 


»  to  Arriwi  }Mi  o. 


»  TM  unUflY  Of   o 


C0 


^£ 


n 


B  viN«o«no  lo  o 


•  vivnv*  V1NV1  « 

I 
S 


9 


3F 


3  1205  01132  1021 


•     AitSUAINn  ] 


inllil  ilil  Mill  Mill  illil  II. ,.   ,,„  ,  „ 
A  A  001  431  021 


2 


/ 


O    AlBtJAMO  IKI    • , 


•  or  CAurotKiA  • 

— I 


•  «o  AKvian  }Ht  • 


•    THI  tlHAtr  Of   e 


CP 


^i 


n 


0  n«  uKivtisnY  o 


m 


B 


•  SANTA  eAUAtA   O 


•    Of  CAIVORNU    • 


u 


^ 


S*T 


o    «?   ll»»W1  »Mt    ». 


•   Of  CAUrOtMA    • 


•  to  i.mm^  iHi  * 


•  TVS  uNivttsnY  • 


y 

£ 

s 

<. 

^R 

2 

b 

D 

•  SANTA  »AUAtA  •  , 


•    TT«  lIUAtV  Of    • 


CIP 


^i 


n 


•    VMKMTO  lO    • 


•    Of  CAllfOVNIA     o 


l^r 

"1 

1  -U 

^ 

•  fo  umtn  mu  • 


\ 


•  rwnrrt  vtNvi  • 


9 


3f\ 


"  iiK«iAtNn  iMi  • 


•  na  iMuar  of  • 

2 


/        \ 


